I See  page   242 


"  I     HAVE    WAITED     ALL     THESE     YEARS  " 


KATRINE 


A  Nottrl 


BY 


ELINOR  MACARTNEY  LANE 

AUTHOR  OF 

"NANCY  STAIR"  AND  "MILLS  OF  GOD" 


NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 
\RTER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

M  C  M  I  X 


Copyright,  1909,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  March,  1909. 


To  ©rant  3B.  Scbles 

Dear  and  great  Friend!  In  IkatllnC'S  fancied  "Land" 
You  long  have  held  your  own  much-honored  place — 

Have  met  great  Esmond  ;  held  kind  Newcome's  hand; 
And  talked  with  merry  Alan  face  to  face; 

For  there,  where  Loyalty  was  word  of  countersign, 
You  entered,  all  unchallenged,  for  the  land  was  thine  I 

E.  M.  L. 

PARIS,  1909 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PACE 

PREFACE vii 

I.  UNDER  THE  SOUTHERN  PINES       ...  i 

II.  THE  MEETING  IN  THE  WOODS     ...  15 

III.  A  KINDNESS  WITH  MIXED  MOTIVES  .     .  29 

IV.  THE  PROMISE  IN  THE  ROSE  GARDEN  .  43 

V.  FRANK    FALLS    FURTHER    UNDER    KA 

TRINE'S  INFLUENCE 50 

VI.  DERMOTT  GIVES  A  DINNER  AT  THE  OLD 

LODGE 63 

VII.  KATRINE'S  OWN  COUNTRY 76 

VIII.  FRANK  YIELDS  TO  TEMPTATION    ...  88 

IX.  THE  TRUTH 94 

X.  To  TRY  TO  UNDERSTAND 104 

XI.  KATRINE  is  LEFT  ALONE 113 

XII.  THE  REAL  FRANCIS  RAVENEL      .     .     .  121 

XIII.  DERMOTT'S  INTERVIEW  WITH  FRANK  AT 

THE  TREVOY 127 

XIV.  DERMOTT  DISCOVERS  A  NEW  SIDE  TO 

FRANK'S  CHARACTER 137 

XV.  JOSEF 143 

XVI.  MRS.  RAVENEL  UNWITTINGLY  BECOMES 

AN  ALLY  OF  KATRINE 152 

XVII.  McDERMOTT  VISITS  His  FRENCH  COUSIN  160 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PAGE 

XVIII.  KATRINE  MEETS  ANNE  LENNOX    .     .  172 

XIX.  A  VISION  OF  THE  PAST 193 

XX.  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  WORK   .     .     .     .  212 

XXI.  THE  NIGHT  OF  KATRINE'S  DEBUT  .     .  219 

XXII.  FRANK  AND  KATRINE  MEET  AT  THE 

VAN  RENSSELAER'S 228 

XXIII.  AN  INTERRUPTED  CONFESSION  .     .     .  234 

XXIV.  "I  WILL  TAKE  CARE  OF  You"    .     .  249 

XXV.  KATRINE  IN  NEW  YORK 271 

XXVI.  DERMOTT  MCDERMOTT 282 

XXVII.  SELF-SURRENDER 299 

XXVIII.  UNDER  THE  SOUTHERN  PINES  ONCE 

MORE 303 


PREFACE 

IT  is  difficult  to  tell  the  story  of  Irish  folk 
intimately  and  convincingly,  the  bare  truths 
concerning  their  splendid  recklessness,  their  un 
productive  ardor,  their  loyalty  and  creative  memo 
ries,  sounding  to  another  race  like  a  pack  of  lies. 

When,  therefore,  I  recall  "The  Singing  Wom 
an,"  Katrine;  her  beauty,  her  fearlessness,  her 
loyalty,  her  voice  of  gold — it  seems  as  if  only  one 
lost  to  caution  and  heedless  of  consequence  would 
undertake  her  history  expecting  it  to  be  believed. 
But  there  is  this  advantage:  the  newspapers,  re 
cording  much  of  her  early  life,  are  still  extant, 
her  Paris  work  discussed  by  Josef's  pupils  to 
this  day,  and  her  divine  forgetfulness  the  night 
she  was  to  sing  at  the  Metropolitan  a  known 
thing  to  people  of  two  continents;  but  unre 
corded  of  her,  till  now,  is  that,  for  love,  like 
brave,  mad  Antony,  she  threw  a  world  away. 

It  is  impossible  to  tell  the  tale  of  Katrine 
vii 


PREFACE 

without  narrating  side  by  side  the  story  of  Der- 
mott  McDermott;  and  here  trouble  begins,  for 
Ireland  would  never  allow  anything  written  con 
cerning  him  that  was  not  flattering,  and  the  Irish 
people,  especially  in  the  regions  of  Kildare  and 
Athlone,  have  combined  to  make  a  saint  of  him. 
A  saint  of  Dermott  McDermott!  Heaven  save 
the  mark! 

But  of  Frank  Ravenel's  life  I  can  speak  with 
truth  and  authority.  I  had  the  story  from  his 
own  lips  under  the  pines  and  the  stars  of  North 
Carolina,  fishing  the  Way-Home  River,  or  sitting 
together  on  the  Chestnut  Ridge,  where  Katrine  and 
he  first  met.  This  was  before  he  became — before 
Katrine  made  him — the  great  man  he  is  to-day. 

And  two  things  linger  with  me  —  the  first  a 
conversation  between  Dermott  and  Katrine  at 
the  Countess  de  Nemours'. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Katrine:  "do  you  think  any 
woman  ever  married  the  man  who  was  kindest  to 
her  ?" 

"It's  unrecorded  if  it  ever  occurred,"  Dermott 
answered. 

And  a  second,  the  truth  of  which  is  less  open 
to  dispute. 

viii 


PREFACE 

"Nora,"  Katrine  asked,  "could  you  ever  have 
loved  any  but  Dennis — your  first  love  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Nora.      "To  an  Irishwoman 
the  drame  comes  but  the  wance." 

E.  M.  L. 


KATRINE 


KATRINE 


UNDER     THE     SOUTHERN     PINES 

RAVENEL  PLANTATION  occupies  a  sin 
gular  rise  of  wooded  land  in  North  Carolina, 
between  Way-Home  River,  Loon  Mountain,  and 
the  Silver  Fork.  The  road  which  leads  from 
Charlotte  toward  the  south  branches  by  the 
Haunted  Hollow,  the  right  fork  going  to  Carlisle 
and  the  left  following  the  rushing  waters  of  the 
Way-Home  River  to  the  very  gate-posts  of  Rave- 
nel  Plantation,  through  which  the  noisy  water 
runs. 

Ravenel  Mansion,  which  stands  a  good  three 
miles  from  the  north  gate  of  the  plantation,  is 
approached  by  a  driveway  of  stately  pines.  The 
main  part  is  built  of  gray  stone,  like  a  fort,  with 
mullioned  windows,  the  yellow  glass  of  early 
colonial  times  still  in  the  upper  panes.  But  the 
show -places  of  the  plantation  are  the  south 

i 


KATRINE 


wing  (added  by  Francis  Ravenel  the  fourth),  and 
the  great  south  gateway,  bearing  the  carved  in 
scription:  "Guests  are  Welcome." 

Long  ago,  when  Charles  II.  was  on  his  way  to 
be  crowned,  a  certain  English  Ravenel — Foulke 
by  name — had  the  good-luck  to  fall  in  with  that 
impulsive  monarch,  and  for  no  further  service  than 
the  making  of  a  rhyme,  vile  in  meter  and  villainous 
as  to  truth-telling,  to  receive  from  him  an  earldom 
and  a  grant  of  "certain  lands  beyond  the  seas." 

Here,  in  these  North  Carolina  lands,  for  nearly 
two  hundred  years,  Ravenel  child  had  grown  to 
Ravenel  man,  educated  abroad,  taught  to  believe 
little  in  American  ways,  and  marrying  frequently 
with  a  far-off  cousin  in  England  or  in  France. 

They  were  gay  lads  these  Ravenels,  hard 
riders,  hard  drinkers,  reckless  in  living  and  love- 
making,  and  held  to  have  their  way  where  women 
were  concerned.  Indeed,  this  tradition  had  an 
cient  authority,  for  on  the  stone  mount  of  the 
sundial  in  the  lilac-walk  there  had  been  chiselled, 
in  the  year  1 771,  by  some  disgruntled  rival  perhaps : 

"The  Ravenels  ryde  forth, 
Hyde  alle  ye  ladyes  gay; 
They  take  a  heart, 
They  break  a  heart, 
Then  ryde  away!" 
2 


UNDER   THE    SOUTHERN    PINES 

The  present  owner  of  the  plantation,  Francis 
Ravenel,  seventh  of  the  name,  stood  in  the  great 
doorway,  dinner  dressed,  the  night  after  his  re 
turn  from  the  East,  viewing  this  inscription  with 
a  humorous  drawing  together  of  the  brows. 

He  was  handsome,  as  the  Ravenel  men  had 
always  been,  with  a  bearing  which  caused  men 
and  women,  especially  women,  to  follow  him  with 
their  eyes.  Certain  family  characteristics  were 
markedly  his:  the  brown  hair  and  the  wide  gray 
eyes,  which  seemed  to  brood  over  a  woman  as 
though  she  were  the  only  one  to  be  desired — 
these  had  belonged  to  the  Ravenel  men  for  gen 
erations;  but  the  shape  of  the  head,  with  its 
broad  brow,  the  short  upper  lip  and  appealing 
smile,  he  had  from  his  lady  mother,  who  had 
been  a  D'Hauteville,  of  New  Orleans. 

From  the  time  of  his  majority,  some  five  years 
before,  the  South  had  been  rife  with  tales  of  his 
wit,  his  love-making,  and  his  lawlessness.  What 
ever  the  cause,  women  were  forever  falling  in 
love  with  him,  and  the  mention  of  his  name  from 
Newport  News  to  New  Orleans  would  but  call 
forth  the  history  of  another  love-affair,  in  which, 
according  to  the  old  inscription,  he  had  taken 
a  heart,  had  broken  a  heart,  and  then  had  ridden 
away. 

3 


KATRINE 


He  awaited  coffee  and  cigarettes  in  the  great 
hall  where  the  candles  had  been  lighted  for 
the  evening,  although  the  sun  was  still  above 
Loon  Mountain.  Looking  within  he  saw  their 
gleams  on  vanished  roses  in  the  old  brocade; 
on  dingy  armor  of  those  who  had  fought  with 
Charlie  Stuart;  on  stately  mahogany,  old  pewters, 
and  on  portraits  of  the  righting  Ravenels  of  days 
long  gone.  There  was  Malcom,  who  died  music- 
mad;  Des  Grieux,  the  one  with  ruff  and  falcon, 
said  to  be  a  Romney;  and  that  Francis,  fourth  of 
the  name  (whom  the  present  Francis  most  resem 
bled),  who  had  lost  his  life,  the  story  ran,  for  a 
queen  too  fair  and  fond. 

Mrs.  Ravenel,  adoring  and  tender,  in  lavender 
and  old  lace,  the  merriest,  gayest,  most  illogical 
little  mother  in  all  that  mother-land  of  the  South, 
regarded  Frank  as  he  re-entered  with  a  blush  of 
pleasure  on  her  bright,  fond  face. 

"Who  has  the  Mainwaring  place,  mother?"  he 
asked. 

"A  heavenly  person,"  Mrs.  Ravenel  answered. 

"Man,  I  suppose,"  Francis  laughed. 

Mrs.  Ravenel  nodded  assent  and  repeated: 
"Heavenly!  An  Irishman;  with  black  hair, 
very  black  brows,  pale  like  a  Spaniard,  about 
thirty—" 

4 


UNDER    THE   SOUTHERN    PINES 

"Your  own  age,"  Frank  interrupted,  with  a 
complimentary  gesture. 

-"who  rides  like  a  trooper,  drinks  half  a  glass 
of  whiskey  at  a  gulp,  and  is  the  greatest  liar  I 
can  imagine." 

"It's  enlightening  to  discover  an  adored  par 
ent's  idea  of  a  heavenly  person,"  Francis  said, 
with  an  amused  smile. 

"He  sends  me  flowers  and  writes  me  poetry. 
We  exchange,"  she  explained,  and  there  came 
to  her  eyes  a  delightfully  critical  appreciation  of 
her  own  doings. 

'The  heavenly  person  has  —  I  suppose  —  a 
name  ?"  Frank  suggested. 

"Dermott  McDermott." 

"  Has  the  heavenly  person  also  a  profession  ?" 

"He  is"  —Mrs.  Ravenel  hesitated  a  minute— 
"he  is  an  international  lawyer  and  a  Wall  Street 
man." 

"  It  sounds  imposing,"  Frank  returned.  "  What 
does  it  mean  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  his  mother  answered.  "/ 
have  enough  of  the  artist  in  me  to  be  satisfied 
with  the  mere  sound.  His  English — 

"His  Irish,"  Frank  interrupted. 

"  is  that  of  Dublin  University,  the  most  beau 
tiful  speech  in  the  world.  He  is  here  in  the  in- 

5 


KATRINE 


terest  of  the  Mainwaring  people,  he  says,  who 
want  some  information  concerning  those  disputed 
mines.  Added  to  his  other  attractions,  he  can 
talk  in  rhyme.  Do  you  understand  ?  Can  talk  in 
rhyme"  she  repeated,  with  emphasis,  "and  car 
ries  a  Tom  Moore  in  his  waistcoat-pocket." 

There  came  a  sound  of  singing  outside — a  man's 
voice,  musical,  with  an  indescribably  jaunty  clip 
to  the  words: 

"I  was  never  addicted  to  work, 

'Twas  never  the  way  o'  the  Gradys; 
But  I'd  make  a  most  excellent  Turk, 
For  I'm  fond  of  tobacco  and  ladies." 

And  with  the  song  still  in  the  air,  the  singer 
came  through  the  shadow  of  the  porch  and 
stood  in  the  doorway — a  man  tall  and  well  set 
up,  in  black  riding -clothes,  cap  in  hand,  who 
saluted  the  two  with  his  crop,  and  as  he  did  so 
a  jewel  gleamed  in  the  handle,  showing  him  to 
be  something  of  a  dandy. 

Standing  in  the  doorway,  the  lights  from  the 
candelabra  on  his  face  and  the  sunset  at  his  back, 
one  noticed  on  the  instant  his  great  freedom  of 
movement  as  of  one  good  with  the  foils.  His  hair 
was  dark,  and  his  eyes,  deep-set  and  luminous  as 
a  child's,  looked  straight  at  the  world  through 

6 


UNDER    THE    SOUTHERN    PINES 

lashes  so  long  they  made  a  mistiness  of  shadow. 
He  had  the  pallor  of  the  Spanish  Creole  found 
frequently  in  the  south  of  Ireland  folk.  His 
mouth  was  straight,  the  upper  lip  a  bit  fuller 
than  the  under  one,  as  is  the  case  when  intellect 
predominates,  and  his  hair  was  of  a  singularly 
dull  and  wavy  black.  But  set  these  and  many 
more  things  down,  and  the  charm  of  him  has  not 
been  written  at  all,  for  the  words  give  no  hint  of 
his  bearing,  his  impertinent  and  charming  famil 
iarity,  the  surety  of  touch,  the  right  word,  and 
the  ready  concession. 

"I  thought  the  evening  was  beautiful  till  I  saw 
you,  madam,"  he  said,  with  a  sweeping  salute. 
"I  k^ss  your  hand — with  emotion."  There  was 
a  slight  pause  here  as  he  regarded  Mrs.  Ravenel 
with  open  admiration.  "And  thank  you  for  the 
beautiful  verses,  asking  that  at  some  soon  date 
you  send  more  of  the  flowers  of  your  imagination 
to  bind  around  the  gloomy  brow  of  Dermott 
McDermott." 

It  was  the  McDermott  way,  this.  A  kiss  on 
the  hand  and  a  compliment  to  Madam  Ravenel; 
a  compliment  and  a  kiss  on  the  lips  to  Peggy  of 
the  Poplars;  but  in  his  heart  it  was  to  the  deil 
with  all  women — save  one — for  he  regarded  them 
as  emotional  liars  to  be  sported  with  and  forgotten. 

7 


KATRINE 

As  Mrs.  Ravenel  presented  to  each  other  these 
two  men  whose  lives  were  to  be  interwoven  for  so 
many  years,  they  shook  hands  cordially  enough, 
but  there  was  both  criticism  and  appraisement  in 
the  first  glance  each  took  of  the  other. 

The  contrast  between  them,  as  they  stood 
with  clasped  hands,  did  not  pass  unnoted  by 
Mrs.  Ravenel.  The  black  hair,  olive  skin,  the 
bluer  than  blue  eyes  of  Dermott,  as  he  stood  in 
the  light  of  the  doorway;  his  alert,  theatric, 
dominating  personality;  his  superb  self-conscious 
ness;  the  decision  of  manner  which  comes  only 
to  those  who  have  achieved,  seemed  to  her  preju 
diced  gaze  admirable  in  themselves,  but  more 
admirable  as  a  foil  to  the  warm  brown  of  Frank's 
hair,  to  the  poetic  gray  of  his  eyes,  his  apparent 
self-depreciation,  his  easy  acceptances,  and  his 
elegant  reluctance  to  obtrude  on  others  either 
his  views  or  his  personality. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  prescience  of  coming  trouble 
between  them  which  caused  a  noticeable  pause 
after  the  introduction — a  pause  which  Dermott 
courteously  broke. 

"So  this  is  the  son,"  he  said.  "Sure,"  he 
went  on,  comparing  them,  "ye've  a  right  to  be 
proud  of  each  other !  Ye  make  a  fine  couple, 
the  two  of  you.  And  now" — putting  his  cap, 

8 


UNDER   THE   SOUTHERN    PINES 

gloves,  and   riding-whip  on   the  window-ledge— 
"I'll  have  coffee  if  you'll  offer  it.     Let  me" 
taking  some  sugar — "eat,  drink,  and  be  merry, 
for   to-morrow,"  he  laughed — "why,  to-morrow 
I  may  have  talked  myself  to  death!" 

Frank  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  by  the 
chimney,  regarding  the  Irishman  as  one  might 
have  viewed  a  performer  in  a  play,  realizing  to  the 
full  what  his  mother  had  meant  by  the  "charm  of 
McDermott,"  for  it  was  a  thing  none  could  deny, 
for  the  subtle  Celt  complimented  the  ones  to 
whom  he  spoke  by  an  approving  and  admiring 
attention,  and  conveyed  the  impression  that 
the  roads  of  his  life  had  but  led  him  to  their 
feet. 

'To  tell  the  truth,"  McDermott  continued, 
noting  and  by  no  means  displeased  by  Frank's 
scrutiny,  "I  had  heard  ye  were  home,  Mr.  Rave- 
nel,  and  came  early  to  see  you  with  a  purpose- 
two  purposes,  I  might  say.  First,  I  wanted  to 
talk  to  you  concerning  Patrick  Dulany,  the  over 
seer  whom  I  got  for  your  mother  last  year.  Ye've 
not  see  him  yet  ?" 

"I  arrived  only  last  night,  Mr.  McDermott," 
Francis  answered. 

'True,  I'd  forgotten.  It's  a  strange  life  Pat 
rick's  had,  and  a  sad  one.  He's  of  my  own 

9 


KATRINE 


college  in  Dublin,  but  a  good  dozen  years  older 
than  I.  'Twas  in  India  I  knew  him  first.  He's 
one  of  the  Black  Dulanys  of  the  North,  and  we 
fought  side  by  side  at  Ramazan.  What  a  time! 
What  a  time!  In  the  famous  charge  up  the 
river,  when  we  turned,  I  lost  my  horse,  and  in 
that  backward  plunge  my  life  was  not  worth 
taking.  While  I  was  lying  there  half  dead  and 
helpless,  this  Dulany  got  from  his  old  gray,  flung 
me  across  his  saddle,  and  carried  me  nine  miles 
back  to  the  camp.  Judge  if  I  love  him!" 

Mr.  McDerrnott  looked  from  the  window  with 
the  fixed  gaze  of  one  struggling  with  unshed  tears. 

"The  next  month  he  was  ordered  home,  and 
soon  after  fell  the  bitter  business  of  the  marriage 
in  Italy.  I  stood  up  with  him.  She  was  the 
most  beautiful  creature  I  have  ever  seen — save 
one;  and  a  voice — God!  I  heard  her  sing  in 
Milan  once.  The  king  was  there;  the  opera 
'La  Favorita.'  She  was  sent  for  to  the  royal 
box.  We  had  the  horses  out  of  her  carriage  and 
dragged  it  home  ourselves.  What  a  night  it  was! 
What  a  night  it  was!" 

McDerrnott  paused  as  in  an  ecstasy  of  re 
membrance. 

"What  was  her  name?"  Francis  asked. 

"Ah,  that" — he  threw  out  his  hand  with  a 
10 


UNDER    THE    SOUTHERN    PINES 

dramatic  gesture —  "tis  a  thing  I  swore  never  to 
mention.  'Tis  a  fancy  of  Dulany's  to  let  it  die 
in  silence." 

"And  she  left  him?"  Mrs.  Ravenel's  voice 
was  full  of  sympathy  as  she  spoke. 

"For  another!"  Dermott  made  a  dramatic 
pause,  relishing  his  climaxes.  "And  then  she 
died." 

"So,  for  his  daughter's  sake" — there  was  a 
curious  hesitancy  in  his  speech  just  here,  but 
he  carried  it  off  jauntily — "his  daughter,  a  prim 
rose  girl  and  the  love  of  my  life,  I've  come  to 
ask  that  you  be  a  bit  lenient  with  him,  Mr.  Rav- 
enel,  at  the  times  he  has  taken  a  drop  too  much, 
as  your  lady  mother  has  been  in  the  year  past. 
I  think  you'll  find  him  able  to  manage,  for,  in 
spite  of  his  infirmity,  black  and  white  fall  under 
his  spell  alike." 

"  If  Frank  has  a  fault,  Mr.  McDermott,  which 
I  do  not  think  he  has,  it's  over-generosity.  You 
need  have  no  fear  for  your  friend,"  Mrs.  Rave- 
nel  said,  proudly,  putting  her  hand  on  Frank's 
shoulder. 

As  her  son  turned  to  kiss  the  slender  fingers, 
Dermott  McDermott  regarded  the  two  curiously. 

"You're  fortunate  in  having  a  son  of  twenty- 
He  hesitated. 

ii 


KATRINE 


"Of  twenty-five,"  Francis  finished  for  him. 

" — so  devoted  to  you,  madam.  Ye' re  twen 
ty-five — coming  or  going  ?"  he  inquired,  with  a 
laugh. 

"On  my  last  birthday — April." 

An  odd  light  shone  in  McDermott's  eyes  for  a 
second  before  he  said,  with  a  bow: 

"Neither  of  ye  look  it;  I  can  assure  you  of  that. 
Well,"  he  continued,  reaching  for  his  cap  and 
whip,  "I  must  be  going.  Ye've  found  already, 
haven't  ye,  Ravenel,  that  the  sound  of  my  own 
voice  is  the  music  of  heaven  to  my  ears  ?"  And 
then,  as  though  trying  to  recollect:  "I  think  I 
said  it  was  at  Ramazan  Dulany  and  I  fought 
together  ?" 

Francis  nodded. 

"God,"  McDermott  cried,  his  face  illumined, 
his  eyes  glowing,  "I  wish  it  had  been  Waterloo! 
I've  always  carried  a  bruised  spirit  that  I  didn't 
fight  at  Waterloo." 

"Your  loss  is  our  gain,  Mr.  McDermott," 
Francis  answered,  with  a  smile.  "You'd  scarce 
be  here  to  tell  it  if  you  had." 

"And  that's  maybe  true,"  Dermott  said,  paus 
ing  by  the  doorway  to  put  on  his  gloves.  "But 
I'd  rather  have  fought  at  Waterloo,  even  if  I 
were  dead  now,  so  that  I  could  tell  you  exactly 

12 


UNDER   THE   SOUTHERN    PINES 

how  it  felt —  There" — he  broke  his  speech  with 
a  laugh — "I  caught  myself  on  the  way  to  an  Irish 
bull. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Ravenel,"  he  called  back  suddenly, 
as  though  the  thought  had  just  come  to  him, 
"I've  been  waiting  your  coming  to  have  a  talk 
with  you — a  business  talk  —  but  not  to-night." 
He  waved  the  matter  aside  with  a  gay,  outward 
movement  of  the  hands.  "Sometime  at  your 
pleasure."  Again  the  eyes  of  the  two  met,  and 
this  time  each  measured  the  other  more  openly 
than  before. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  at  any  time,  Mr. 
McDermott,"  Frank  answered,  his  words  cour 
teous  enough,  but  his  eyes  lacking  warmth;  and 
the  intuitive  Celt  realized  that  in  Frank  he  had 
met  one  whom  he  had  failed  either  to  bewilder 
or  to  charm. 

"Madam!"  he  cried,  saluting.  "Mr.  Francis 
Ravenel,  delightful  son  of  a  delightful  mother! 
The  top  of  the  evening  to  both  of  ye."  And 
with  a  considered  manner  he  made  a  stage 
exit,  and  Frank  and  Madam  Ravenel  heard 
the  gay  voice — 

"...  most  excellent  Turk, 
For  I'm  fond  of  tobacco  and  ladies — " 

'3 


KATRINE 

coming  back  with  the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs 
through  the  fading  sunlight  over  the  dew  of  the 
daisies. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Ravenel,  her  eyes  dancing 
with  merry  light,  "  isn't  he  delightful  ?" 

"Delightful!"  Frank  repeated.  "Is  he?  I 
wonder.  Shrewd,  cool-headed,  cruel,  I  think — 
subtle  as  well." 

"Nonsense,"  Mrs.  Ravenel  interrupted,  with  a 
smile  which  might  not  have  been  so  mirthful  had 
she  seen  at  that  moment  the  man  of  whom  she 
spoke. 

Near  the  north  gate  McDermott  had  brought 
his  horse  suddenly  to  a  walk.  There  was  no 
longer  gayety  in  his  manner  or  his  face.  The 
merry  light  had  left  his  eyes,  and  in  its  place 
shone  a  gleam,  steady  and  cold,  as  only  the  eye 
of  the  intellectual  Irish  can  be. 

"And  so  that  is  the  son!  An  unco  man  for 
the  lassies,  like  his  father  before  him."  His  eye 
lids  drew  together  as  he  spoke.  "Handsome, 
too — with  a  knowledge  of  life.  It's  a  pity!"  he 
said.  "It's  a  pity!  But  he  may  not  interfere. 
If  he  does,  well — even  if  he  does,  the  gods  are 
with  the  Irish!" 


II 

THE    MEETING    IN    THE    WOODS 

INSTEAD  of  entering  the  drawing-room  after 
1  Dermott's  departure,  Frank  turned  with  some 
abruptness  toward  Mrs.  Ravenel. 

"  I  am  going  for  a  walk,  mother,"  he  said,  with 
no  suggestion  that  she  accompany  him;  and  her 
intimate  acquaintance  with  Francis,  sixth  of  the 
name,  made  her  understand  with  some  accuracy 
the  moods  of  his  son,  Francis  seventh. 

"You  are  handsomer  than  ever,  Frank!"  she 
exclaimed,  as  if  in  answer  to  the  suggestion. 

"You  spoil  me,  mother,"  he  returned,  with  a 
smile. 

"Women  have  always  done  that — "  she  began. 

"And  you  more  than  any  other,"  Frank  broke 
in,  kissing  her,  with  a  deference  of  manner  sin 
gularly  his  own. 

'There  may  be  truth  in  that,"  Mrs.  Ravenel  ad 
mitted,  a  fine  sense  of  humor  marked  by  the  grudg 
ing  tone  in  which  she  spoke.  "I  remember  that 

15 


KATRINE 


only  yesterday  I  was  in  a  rage  because  the  roses 
were  not  further  open  to  welcome  you  home." 

"Nature  is  unappreciative,"  he  returned;  and 
the  gray  eyes  with  the  level  lids  looked  into  the 
blue  ones  with  the  level  lids,  and  both  laughed. 

For  a  space  Mrs.  Ravenel  contemplated  him, 
the  ecstasy  of  motherhood  illuminating  the  glance. 

"You  are  quite  the  handsomest  human  being 
I  ever  saw,  Frank — though  I  think  I  said  some 
thing  like  that  before." 

"You  are,  of  course,  unprejudiced,  lady  moth 
er,"  he  laughed  back  from  the  lowest  step. 

"It's  natural  I  should  be — being  only  a  moth 
er,"  she  explained,  gayly. 

"Ah,"  she  went  on,  "I  am  so  happy  to  have 
you  at  home  with  me!  Not  happy  at  having 
asked  those  people  down.  They  come  on  the 
twenty-seventh." 

"Whom  have  you  asked?" 

"The   Prescotts." 

"Good." 

"The  Porters  and  Sallie  Maddox.' 

"Better." 

"And  Anne  Lennox." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Did  I  hear  you  say  'best'?"  Mrs.  Ravenel 
inquired. 

16 


THE    MEETING    IN    THE    WOODS 

"By  some  wanderment  of  mind,  I  forgot  it,'* 
Frank  returned,  lightly. 

"I  am  always  subtle  in  my  methods,"  his 
mother  continued.  "Note  the  adroitness  now. 
Why  don't  you  marry  her,  Frank  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  marry  me  ?" 

"Don't  be  foolish.  Anne  is  devoted  to  you, 
and  you  must  marry  some  one.  You  are  an  only 
son.  There  is  the  family  name  to  be  thought 
of,  and  there  must  be  a  Francis  eighth  to  in 
herit  the  good  looks  of  Francis  seventh,  must 
there  not  ?  And  how  I  shall  hate  it!"  she  added, 
truthfully. 

Again  a  silence  fell  between  them  before  Frank 
turned  the  talk  with  intention  in  word  and  tone. 

"  About  this  new  overseer  ?"  he  asked.  "  Satis 
factory  ?" 

"When  not  drunk— very." 

"Does  it"  —he  smiled—  "I  mean  the  drunken 
ness,  not  the  satisfaction — occur  frequently  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  it  does." 

"What  did  McDermott  say  his  name  is  ?" 

"Patrick  Dulany." 

"  French,  I  suppose  ?"  he  suggested. 

"  By  all  the  laws  of  inference,"  his  mother  re 
turned,  with  an  answering  gleam  in  her  eye. 

"There  seems  to  have  been  a  Celtic  invasion 


KATRINE 


of  the  Carolinas  during  my  absence.  Has  he  a 
family  ?" 

"Only  a  daughter."  And  as  Frank  turned  to 
leave  her  Mrs.  Ravenel  asked,  lightly:  "How 
long  do  you  intend  to  stay  here,  Frank  ?" 

"I  have  made  no  plans,"  he  answered;  but 
going  down  the  carriageway  he  said  to  himself, 
with  a  smile :  "  Mother  shows  her  hand  too  plain 
ly.  The  girl  is  evidently  young  and  pretty." 

The  plantation  had  never  seemed  so  beautiful 
to  him.  The  wild  roses  were  in  bloom;  the  fringe- 
trees  and  dogwood  hung  white  along  the  river- 
banks;  the  golden  azaleas,  nodding  wake-robins, 
and  muskadine  flowers  looked  up  at  them  from 
below,  while  the  cotton  spread  its  green  tufts 
miles  and  miles  away  to  a  sunlit  horizon. 

Swinging  along  the  road  outside  the  park,  the 
half-formed  plan  to  visit  the  overseer  left  him, 
and  purposeless  he  climbed  the  hill  to  Chestnut 
Ridge.  Something  in  the  occasion  of  his  home 
coming  after  a  two  years'  absence — his  mother's 
reference  to  his  marriage,  his  remembrances  of 
Anne  Lennox — had  brought  back  to  his  face 
its  habitual  expression  of  sadness.  And  more 
than  he  would  have  acknowledged  was  a  dis 
quietude  caused  by  his  instant  resentment  of  the 
existence  of  Dermott  McDermott.  Never  in  his 

18 


THE   MEETING   IN    THE    WOODS 

life  had  he  felt  more  strongly  the  need  for  com 
panionship.  He  had  been  loved  by  many  women. 
He  had  never  been  believed  in  by  any. 

Passionate,  proud,  intolerant,  full  of  prejudice, 
conscious  by  twenty-six  years'  experience  of  a 
most  magnetic  power  with  women,  he  came  to 
the  edge  of  the  far  wood  as  lawless  a  man.  in 

o 

as  lawless  a  mood,  as  the  Carolinas  had  ever 
seen — a  locality  where  lawless  men  have  not 
been  wanting. 

Suddenly,  through  the  twilight,  he  heard  a 
voice — a  woman's  voice — singing,  and  by  instinct 
he  knew  that  the  singer  was  alone  and  conscious 
of  nothing  save  the  song. 

At  the  top  of  the  rise,  under  a  group  of  beeches, 
with  both  arms  stretched  along  a  bar  fence,  a  girl 
stood,  the  black  of  her  hair  in  silhouette  against 
the  gold  of  the  sky.  He  noted  the  slender  grace 
of  her  body  as  she  leaned  backward,  and  listened 
to  her  voice,  Heaven-given,  vibrant,  caressing— 
juste,  as  the  French  have  it — singing  an  old  song. 

He  had  heard  it  hundreds  of  times  cheapened 
by  lack  of  temperament,  lack  of  voice,  lack  of 
taste;  but  as  he  listened,  though  little  versed  in 
music,  he  knew  that  it  was  a  great  voice  that 
sang  it  and  a  great  personality  which  interpreted 
it.  With  the  song  still  trembling  through  the 

19 


KATRINE 

silence  the  singer  turned  toward  him,  and,  man 
of  the  world  and  many  loves  as  he  had  been,  an 
unknown  feeling  came  at  sight  of  her. 

A  flower  of  a  girl — "of  fire  and  dew,"  delicate 
features,  nose  tip-tilted,  a  chin  firmly  modelled 
under  the  rounded  flesh,  and  eyes  bright  with  the 
wonder  and  pride  of  life.  She  wore  a  short- 
waisted  black  frock,  scant  of  skirt  and  cut  away 
at  the  neck.  It  was  in  this  same  frock  that  the 
Sargent  picture  of  her  was  painted  —  but  that 
was  years  afterward;  and  although  she  was  mo 
tionless,  one  knew  from  her  slender  figure  and 
arched  feet  that  she  moved  with  fire  and  spirit. 
Her  hair  was  very  dark,  though  red  showed 
through  it  in  a  strong  light,  and  her  cheeks  had 
the  dusky  pink  of  an  October  peach.  But  it 
was  the  eyes  that  held  and  allowed  no  forget 
ting;  Ravenel  always  held  they  were  violet,  and 
Josef,  who  saw  her  every  day  for  years,  spoke 
them  gray;  but  Dermott  McDermott  was  firm 
as  to  their  being  blue  until  the  day  she  visited 
him  about  the  railroad  business,  when  he  after 
ward  described  them  "as  black  as  chaos,"  add 
ing  a  word  or  two  about  her  deil's  temper  as  well. 
The  truth  was  that  the  color  of  them  changed 
with  her  emotions,  but  the  wistfulness  of  them 
remained  ever  the  same.  Dermott,  in  some  lines 

20 


THE    MEETING    IN    THE    WOODS 

he  wrote  of  her  in  Paris,  described  them  as 
"corn-flowers  in  a  mist  filled  with  the  poetry  and 
passion  of  a  great  and  misunderstood  people," 
and  though  "over- poetic,"  as  he  himself  said 
afterward,  "the  thought  was  none  so  bad." 

Suddenly  the  languor  seemed  to  leave  her,  and 
she  stood  alert,  chin  drawn  in,  hands  clasped  be 
fore  her,  and  began  the  recitative  to  the  "Ah! 
Fors  e  lui"  Twice  she  stopped  abruptly,  taking 
a  tone  a  second  time,  listening  as  she  did  so,  her 
head,  birdlike,  on  one  side  with  a  concentrated  at 
tention.  After  the  last  low  note,  which  was  round 
and  low  like  an  organ  tone,  she  resumed  her  old 
position  with  arms  outstretched  upon  the  fence. 

As  Frank  came  up  the  path  their  eyes  met,  and 
he  removed  his  hat,  holding  it  at  his  side,  as  one 
who  did  not  intend  to  resume  it.  Standing  thus, 
he  bore  himself,  if  one  might  use  the  word  of  a 
man,  with  a  certain  sweetness,  an  entire  seeming 
self-forgetfulness,  as  though  the  one  to  whom 
he  spoke  occupied  his  entire  thought. 

"It  is  Miss  Dulany  ?"  he  inquired,  with  a  smile 
which  seemed  to  ask  pardon  for  his  temerity. 

"I  am  Katrine  Dulany,"  the  girl  answered, 
gravely,  for  the  readjustment  from  the  music  and 
the  silence  was  not  easily  made. 

"I  was  fortunate  enough  to  hear  you  sing.  It 
21 


KATRINE 

almost  made  me  forget  to  say  that  I  am  Mr. 
Ravenel." 

"I  know,"  Katrine  answered.  "The  planta 
tion  has  expected  your  coming." 

A  silence  followed,  during  which,  with  no  em 
barrassment,  she  retained  her  position,  waiting 
for  him  to  pass.  The  indifference  of  it  pleased 
him. 

"I  was  going  to  see  your  father  at  the  lodge. 
The  roads  are  unfamiliar,  and  the  path,  after  two 
years'  absence,  a  bit  lonely."  The  sadness  which 
accompanied  the  words  was  honest,  but  it  seemed 
for  some  more  personal  sorrow  than  it  was. 

"My  father  is  not  well,"  Katrine  said,  hastily. 
"I  am  afraid  you  cannot  see  him,  Mr.  Ravenel. 
May  I  ask  him  to  go  to  you  to-morrow  instead  ?" 
There  was  entreaty  in  her  voice,  and  Frank  knew 
the  truth  on  an  instant. 

"I  cannot  have  you  carrying  messages  for 
me." 

"Seeing  that  I  offered  myself" — she  suggested, 
with  a  smile. 

" — is  no  reason  that  I  should  trespass  on  your 
kindness,  so  I  shall  carry  my  message  myself." 
This  quite  firmly. 

"I  will  sing  again  if  you  stay."  She  looked 
at  him  through  her  long  lashes  without  turning 

22 


THE    MEETING    IN    THE    WOODS 

her  head.  "You  see,"  she  added,  "I  have  made 
up  my  mind." 

"It's  a  premium  on  discourtesy,"  he  answered, 
"but  I  yield." 

Near  the  place  where  she  stood  there  was  a 
fallen  log,  and  he  seated  himself  upon  it,  placing 
his  hat  on  the  ground  as  though  for  a  continued 
stay,  regarding  her  curiously. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  his  drunken  overseer, 
a  child  in  years,  yet  she  showed  neither  embarrass 
ment  nor  eagerness;  indeed,  she  conveyed  to  him 
the  impression  that  it  was  profoundly  equal  to 
her  whether  he  went  or  stayed. 

'Tell  me,"  he  said,  "before  you  sing,  where 
have  you  studied  ?" 

"I?"  she  laughed,  but  the  laugh  was  not  all 
mirthful.  "In  Paris,  in  London,  in  Rome,  in 
New  York."  There  was  bitterness  in  her  tone. 
"  I  am  a  gamin  of  the  world,  monsieur." 

'Tell  me,"  he  repeated,  insistently. 

She  made  no  response,  but  stood,  with  her  pro 
file  toward  him,  looking  into  the  sunset. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  ?"  he  asked  again,  his  tone 
more  intimate  than  before. 

"Ah,  why  should  I  ?"  And  then,  with  a  sudden 
veering:  "After  all,  there  is  little  to  tell.  I  was 
born  in  Paris  of  poor — but  Irish — parents."  She 

23 


KATRINE 

smiled  as  she  spoke.  "My  mother  was  a  great 
singer,  whose  name  I  will  not  call.  She  married 
my  father;  left  him  and  me.  I  do  not  remember 
her.  Since  her  death  my  father  has  been  a  spent 
man.  We  have  wandered  from  place  to  place. 
When  he  found  work  I  was  sent  to  some  convent 
near  by.  The  Sisters  have  taught  me.  For  three 
months  I  studied  with  Barili.  I  have  sung  in  the 
churches.  Finally,  Mr.  McDermott,  on  the  next 
plantation,  met  us  in  New  York,  recommended 
my  father  for  this  work,  and  we  came  here." 

She  turned  from  him  as  she  ended  the  telling. 
"What  shall  I  sing?"  she  asked. 

"'The   Serenade.'" 

"Schubert's?" 

"There  is  but  one." 

"  It  is  difficult  without  the  accompaniment,  but 
I  will  try: 

"  'All  the  stars  keep  watch  in  heaven 

While  I  sing  to  thee, 
And  the  night  for  love  was  given — 
Darling,  come  to  me — 
Darling,  come  to  me!' ' 

She  ended,  her  hands  clasped  before  her,  her 
lithe  figure,  by  God-given  instinct  for  song, 
leaned  forward,  and  Francis  Ravenel  was  con- 

24 


THE    MEETING    IN    THE    WOODS 

scious  that  the  passion  in  the  voice  had  nothing 
to  do  with  his  presence;  that  it  was  the  music 
alone  of  which  she  thought,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  touched  the  edge  of  the  knowledge 
that  a  great  gift  sets  its  owner  as  a  thing  apart. 

"Sometime,"  he  said,  "when  you  have  become 
famous,  and  all  the  world  is  singing  your  praises, 
I  shall  say,  'Once  she  sang  for  me  alone,  at  twi 
light,  under  the  beeches,  in  a  far  land,'  and  the 
people  will  take  off  their  hats  to  me,  as  to  one 
who  has  had  much  honor." 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke.  It  was  the  smile  or 
the  praise  of  the  song,  or  a  cause  too  subtle  to 
name,  that  changed  her.  She  had  already  seemed 
an  indifferent  woman,  a  great  artist,  a  careless 
Bohemienne  in  her  speech;  but  for  the  next 
change  he  was  unprepared:  it  was  a  pleading 
child  with  wistful  eyes  who  seated  herself  beside 
him,  not  remotely  through  any  self-consciousness, 
but  near  to  him,  where  speech  could  be  con 
veniently  exchanged. 

"Mr.  Ravenel,"  she  began,  "I  had  thought  to 
keep  it  from  you,  but  you  are  different — the  most 
different  person  I  ever  saw."  A  dimple  came  in 
her  cheek  as  she  smiled.  "And  so  I  am  going  to 
tell  you  everything."  She  made  a  little  outward 
gesture  of  the  hands,  as  though  casting  discre- 

25 


KATRINE 

tion  to  the  wind.  '"  My  father  drinks.  It  began 
with  his  great  sorrow.  It  is  not  all  the  time, 
but  frequently.  I  had  hoped  that  down  here  he 
would  be  better.  He  is  not,  and  you  will  have  to 
get  another  overseer.  It  is  not  just  to  you  to 
have  my  father  in  charge.  Only  I  think  that 
perhaps  such  times  as  he  is  himself  some  work 
might  be  found  for  him.  It  is  so  peaceful  here; 
I  do  not  want  to  go  away." 

"You  shall  not  go  away." 

The  words  were  spoken  quietly,  but  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  Katrine  Dulany  felt  there 
was  some  one  of  great  power  to  whom  she  could 
turn  for  help,  and  her  woman  heart  thrilled  at  the 
Words. 

"You  mustn't  feel  about  it  as  you  do,  either," 
Frank  continued.  "The  time  has  gone  by  for 
thinking  of  your  father's  trouble  as  anything 
except  a  disease — a  disease  which  very  frequently 
can  be  cured." 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  "do  you  think  it  would  be 
possible  ?" 

"I  have  known  many  cases.  Is  your  father 
good  to  you  ?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

"Sick  or  well,  with  money  or  without,  he  is  the 
kindest  father  in  the  world.  Save  in  one  way, 
it  is  always  for  me  he  thinks." 

26 


THE    MEETING    IN    THE   WOODS 

Her  hand  lay  on  the  log.  It  was  small  and 
white,  and  she  was  very  beautiful.  Frank  had 
seldom  resisted  temptation.  This  one  he  did 
not  even  try  to  resist,  and  he  placed  his  hand  over 
hers. 

"Katrine,"  he  said,  "I  am  not  a  particularly 
good  man,  but  the  gods  have  willed  that  we  meet 
—meet  in  strange  moods  and  a  strange  way. 
I  am  a  better  man  to-night  than  I  have  ever  been 
in  my  life.  It's  the  music,  maybe,  or  the  fringed 
gentian,  or  the  whippoorwills."  There  was  love- 
making  in  every  tone  of  his  voice.  "Whatever 
it  is,  it  makes  me  want  to  help  you.  May  I  ? 
Will  you  trust  me  ?" 

She  turned  her  hand  upward,  as  a  child  might 
have  done,  to  clasp  his,  looking  him  full  in  the 
eyes  as  she  did  so. 

"Utterly,"  she  said. 

"I  have  not  always  been  considered  trust 
worthy,"  he  explained,  lightly. 

"  People  may  not  have  understood  you."  There 
was  a  sweet  explaining  in  her  voice. 

"Which  may  have  been,  on  the  whole,  fortunate 
for  me,"  he  answered,  with  a  curious  smile. 

"  Don't,"  she  said — "don't  talk  of  yourself  like 
that.  I  know  you  are  good,  good,  good!" 

"Thank  you,"  and  again  there  came  to  him 
27 


KATRINE 


the  throb  in  the  throat  he  had  felt  when  their 
eyes  first  met.  "  Believe  me,"  he  said,  "  I  shall 
always  try  to  be — to  you,"  and  as  he  spoke  he 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it. 

A  noise  startled  him.  Some  one  was  approach 
ing  with  uncertain  footsteps  and  a  shuffling  gait, 
and  at  the  sound  the  girl's  face  turned  crimson. 

"  Katrine,  little  Katrine,  where  are  you  ?"  a 
voice  cried,  thickly  and  uncertainly,  as  a  man 
came  from  under  the  gloom  of  the  trees.  There 
was  not  a  moment's  hesitation.  The  child  rose 
and  put  her  arms  around  the  figure  with  a  divine, 
womanly  gesture,  as  though  to  shield  him  and 
his  infirmities  from  the  whole  world.  It  was  the 
action  of  one  ashamed  to  be  ashamed. 

"Daddy,"  she  said,  laying  her  head  against 
his  shoulder, "  this  is  Mr.  Ravenel!" 


Ill 

A    KINDNESS    WITH    MIXED    MOTIVES 

IN  the  walk  home  through  the  gloom  of  the 
night  Frank  Ravenel  thought  of  many  things 
not  hitherto  considered  in  his  philosophy.  The 
women  whom  he  had  known  had  presented  few 
complexities  to  him.  That  he  should  be  giving 
a  second  thought  to  Katrine  Dulany  seemed  hu 
morous;  but  the  more  he  resolved  to  put  her 
from  his  thoughts  the  more  vivid  the  memory 
of  her  became.  He  recalled  his  emotion  when 
their  eyes  first  met,  and  the  remembrance  brought 
again  the  tightening  of  the  throat  which  he  had  on 
the  hilltop.  He  could  feel  the  clinging  pressure 
of  the  slender  hand,  could  hear  again  the  voice  like 
a  caress,  and  her  words,  "You  are  good — good- 
good!"  kept  repeating  themselves  somewhere  in 
the  recesses  of  his  brain  to  the  tune  of  an  old  song. 

"Good!"  he  ejaculated.  "God,  if  she  only 
knew!" 

He  had  stated  to  his  mother  at  the  outset  of 

3  29 


KATRINE 

the  walk  that  he  had  no  plans;  but  in  reality 
his  summer  had  been  fairly  well  arranged  be 
fore  his  return,  lacking  only  a  few  set  dates  to 
fill  the  time  till  October.  The  party  at  Ravenel 
would  be  over  in  a  fortnight,  and  then — the 
thought  of  another  woman  who  loved  him  and 
a  certain  husband  yachting  on  the  Mediter 
ranean  crossed  his  mind  for  an  instant  w: Mi  an 
noyance  and  a  little  shame. 

The  girl  on  the  hill  had  had  a  more  disturbing 
effect  than  any  one  that  ever  came  into  his  life 
before.  Looking  down  the  vista  of  probable 
events,  he  saw  nothing  but  trouble  for  her  if  he 
remained  at  Ravenel — saw  it  as  reasonably  and 
as  logically  as  though  he  were  contemplating  the 
temptation  of  another.  An  affair  with  the 
daughter  of  his  overseer,  a  very  young  person, 
was  a  manifest  impossibility  for  him,  Francis 
Ravenel;  his  pride  and  such  honor  as  he  had 
where  women  were  concerned  forbade  it.  But 
even  as  he  reached  this  decision  the  voice  of 
gold  came  back  to  him: 

"And  the  night  for  love  was  given — 
Darling,  come  to  me!" 

How  she  could  love  a  man!  He  recalled  her  gest 
ure  when  she  said:  "I  will  tell  you  everything"! 

3° 


KINDNESS   WITH    MIXED    MOTIVES 

The  glance  through  the  lashes— "I've  a  fancy  for 
my  own  way"!  the  forgetting  of  his  presence  for 
the  song-singing  and  the  sunset,  coming  back  to 
talk  with  him;  a  pleading  child! 

By  the  lake  he  paused,  and,  looking  into  the 
moon-lit  water,  came  to  his  conclusions  sanely 
enough.  He  would  see  her  no  more.  There 
would  be  many  people  for  the  next  fortnight  to 
occupy  his  time;  the  coming  folks  were  inter 
esting.  Anne  Lennox  would  be  there;  the  time 
would  pass;  he  would  leave  Ravenel;  but  as 
he  dropped  asleep  a  voice  seemed  to  call  to 
him  through  the  pines,  and  he  knew  he  would 
not  go. 

The  next  morning  before  coffee  he  wrote  to 
Dr.  Johnston,  the  great  specialist  in  alcoholic  dis 
eases,  urging  him  to  come  to  Ravenel  at  his  earli 
est  convenience.  'There  is  a  man  to  be  helped," 
he  wrote,  "and  neither  money  nor  brains  are  to 
be  spared  in  the  helping." 

Through  the  breakfast  the  memory  of  Katrine 
was  vividly  with  him.  He  recalled,  with  the  ap 
proval  of  an  aristocrat  in  taste,  the  daintiness  of 
her  movements,  the  delicacy  of  her  hands  as 
they  lay  open  on  the  fence,  even  her  indifference 
to  him,  to  him,  who  was  in  no  wise  accustomed 
to  indifference  in  women. 

31 


KATRINE 

At  twilight  he  went  to  the  Chestnut  Ridge, 
but  Katrine  was  not  there,  nor  did  she  come. 
The  following  day  he  went  again  with  a  similar 
resulting.  The  third  day  he  saw  her  about  noon 
on  the  river-bank,  and  she  waved  her  hand  to 
him  in  a  cavalier  fashion,  disappearing  into  a 
small  copse  of  dogwood,  not  to  reappear.  The 
thing  had  become  amusing. 

During  this  time  he  saw  neither  Dermott 
McDermott  nor  the  new  overseer,  whom  he 
learned  was  at  Marlton  on  affairs  concerning  a 
sawmill. 

The  fourth  day  after  his  meeting  with  Katrine 
a  message  from  the  great  doctor  gave  him  the 
dignity  of  a  mission,  and  he  rode  to  the  old 
lodge  to  show  her  the  letter,  which  said  that 
Dr.  Johnston  would  be  at  Ravenel  soon. 

There  was  eagerness  in  his  gait  and  eyes  as 
he  mounted  his  horse,  and  as  he  rode  down  the 
carriageway  standing  in  his  stirrups,  waving  his 
cap  to  his  mother  with  a  "Tallyho  to  the  hounds," 
he  had  never  looked  handsomer  nor  had  more  of 
an  air  of  carrying  all  before  him,  as  was  right, 
she  thought,  for  a  Ravenel. 

The  old  gate  -  lodge  on  the  Ravenel  place 
stands  on  the  north  branch  of  the  road  which 
leads  to  Three  Poplar  Inn.  It  is  built  of  pale- 

32 


KINDNESS  WITH    MIXED    MOTIVES 

colored  English  brick  and  gray  stones,  and  runs 
upward  to  the  height  of  two  stories,  with  broad 
doorways  and  wide  windows  peeping  through 
ivy  which  covers  the  place  from  foundation  to 
roof. 

Frank  remembered  it  as  a  drear-looking,  lone 
some  place  during  the  occupancy  of  the  former 
incumbent.  Instead,  he  found  a  reclaimed  gar 
den;  hedges  of  laurel,  trim  and  straight;  old- 
fashioned  flowers,  snowballs,  gillybells,  great 
pink-and-white  peonies;  and  over  the  front  on 
trellises,  by  the  gate  and  doorway,  scrambles  of 
scarlet  roses  against  the  green  and  the  ivied  walls. 

In  the  doorway  Nora  O'Grady,  a  short,  wide 
woman  of  fifty  or  thereabout,  was  singing  at  a 
spinning-wheel.  She  had  a  kind,  yellow  face 
with  high  cheek-bones,  and  dark  eyes  which 
seemed  darker  by  reason  of  the  snowy  hair  show 
ing  under  a  mob  cap.  Her  chin  was  square 
and  pointed  upward  like  old  Mother  Hubbard's, 
and  she  could  talk  of  batter-cakes  or  home  rule 
with  humorous  volubility,  and  smoke  a  pipe 
with  the  manner  of  a  condescending  duchess. 

She  had,  as  Frank  found  afterward,  an  excel 
lent  gift  at  anecdote,  but  a  clipping  pronuncia 
tion  of  English  by  reason  of  having  spoken  noth 
ing  but  the  Erse  until  she  was  grown.  Added  to 

33 


KATRINE 

this  was  an  entirely  illogical  ignorance  of  cer 
tain  well-known  words,  and  Katrine  told  him 
later  that  once  when  Nora  was  asked  if  the  din 
ner  was  postponed,  she  answered :  "  It  was  pork." 

For  fifteen  years  this  strange  old  creature  and 
her  boy  Barney  had  followed  the  seesawing  fort 
unes  of  the  Dulanys,  accompanying  their  gypsy- 
like  sojournings  with  great  loyalty  and  joyous- 
ness. 

She  rose  from  her  spinning  as  Ravenel  ap 
proached. 

"Is  Miss  Katrine  at  home?"  he  inquired. 

Nora  dropped  a  courtesy,  and  with  the  tail  of 
her  eye  observed,  labelled,  and  docketed  Francis 
Ravenel. 

"Will  your  lordship  be  seated,"  she  said. 
"  Miss  Katrine  will  be  back  in  a  minute.  She's 
gone  to  ask  after  Miranda's  baby.  Nothin' 
seems  able  to  stop  her  from  regardin'  the  nay- 
gurs  as  human  beings.  If  'twere  not  that  I 
know  she'd  be  here  immejit  I'd  go  afther  her 
mysel',  and  not  keep  your  lordship  waitin'." 

She  motioned  him  to  a  wide  settle  on  the  porch 
with  an  alert  hospitality.  In  her  heart  she  pre 
ferred  Dermott  McDermott  to  all  possible  suit 
ors  for  Katrine,  but  if  this  was  another  jo,  as 
the  Scotch  say,  so  much  the  better,  for  one  might 

34 


KINDNESS  WITH    MIXED    MOTIVES 

urge  the  other  on,  she  thought,  with  primitive 
sagacity. 

"Would  ye  have  a  drop  of  Scotch  ?"  she  asked, 
and  upon  Francis  declining  she  reseated  herself 
at  her  wheel,  "with  his  permission,"  as  she  put 
it,  delighted,  Celtlike,  at  the  chance  for  conver 
sation.  "Ye're  perhaps,"  she  says,  with  some 
humor,  "like  the  man  in  the  old,  old  tale  when 
a  friend  asked  him  to  take  a  drink.  He  said  he 
couldn't  for  three  reasons.  First,  he'd  prom 
ised  his  mother  he  never  would  drink;  second, 
his  doctor  had  tould  him  he  mustn't  drink;  and, 
third,  he'd  just  had  a  drink." 

Frank  laughed  back  at  the  merry  old  woman 
as  she  sat  at  the  whirring  wheel,  her  accustomed 
eyes  scarcely  glancing  at  the  work  in  her  scrutiny 
of  him. 

"Dulany's  not  at  home  this  day.  I'm  sorry," 
she  went  on.  "He's  off  about  the  sawmill  of 
that  triflin'  Shehan  man.  Did  ye  hear  that  about 
his  telegraph,  Mr.  Ravenel  ?  No  ?  It's  a  funny 
tale.  Ye  know  that  old  mill  of  yours  ain't  worth 
more  than  a  few  hunder  dollars.  But  Dulany 
saw  an  advertisement  for  a  new  kind  of  ma 
chinery,  and  he  wrote  the  firm  to  ask  them  what 
it  would  cost  to  have  it  put  in.  They  sint  back 
the  word:  tin  thousand  dollars,  and  would  he 

35 


KATRINE 


plaze  lit  thim  know  immejit  if  it  was  wanted.   He 
didn't  wait  to  write.     He  telegraphed: 

"  'If  a  man  had  ten  thousand  dollars,  what  in  hell 
would  he  want  with  a  sawmill  ?' ' 

Frank  laughed  aloud  again,  uncomprehend 
ing  the  fact  that  the  shrewd  little  woman  was 
deliberately  holding  him  with  her  tales  till  Ka 
trine  returned. 

Inside  the  house  he  heard  a  note,  struck  sud 
denly,  and  repeated  over  and  over  in  a  voice 
little  above  a  whisper. 

"She's  come  in  the  other  way.  I'll  tell  her 
your  lordship's  wantin'  her,"  said  Nora  O'Grady, 
disappearing. 

He  looked  about  him  in  great  content.  Things 
seemed  so  much  as  he  desired  them  to  be — the 
roses,  the  old  furniture,  the  spinning-wheel,  the 
coiffed  peasant  woman — that  he  waited  for  Ka 
trine's  coming,  fearing  that  she  should  be  less 
beautiful  than  he  remembered  her. 

With  some  surprise  he  heard  a  laugh  (he  had 
not  thought  of  her  as  a  girl  who  laughed)  so 
merry,  so  infectious  that  he  found  himself  won 
dering  what  caused  it  as  the  girl  herself  came 
through  the  doorway  to  greet  him,  her  rose  face 
radiant,  her  eyes  shining,  her  hand  outstretched. 

36 


KINDNESS  WITH    MIXED    MOTIVES 

She  was  more  loveworthy,  more  imperious, 
than  he  remembered  her,  a  thing  which  bewil 
dered  him  as  he  thought  of  her  entreating 
smile,  and  her  wistful  and  approving  eyes. 

She  wore  white,  so  simply  made  as  to  have 
something  statuesque  about  the  lines  of  the  gown, 
and  cut  from  the  throat  to  show  the  poise  of  the 
head  and  the  curls  at  the  back  of  the  neck. 

"I  could  scarcely  believe  Nora  when  she  said 
it  was  you.  Father  is  at  Marlton.  I  was  so 
lonely.  It  is  good  of  you  to  come,  even  if  only 
on  business.  You  are  riding  ?"  she  asked,  re 
garding  his  clothes. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "I  am  going  to  the 
world's  end." 

"You  will  be  sorry,"  she  returned,  quickly. 
"  I  have  been  there.  Carolina  is  better.  Stay 
here!" 

She  seated  herself  beside  him  on  the  settle  as 
she  spoke,  and  the  odor  of  the  red  rose  she 
wore  at  her  breast  came  to  him  with  the 
words. 

He  had  taken  off  his  hat  and  leaned  his  bare 
brown  head  against  the  high  back  of  the  bench. 

"You  see,"  he  began,  his  eyelids  drawn  to 
gether  in  his  own  way,  his  eyes  fastened  upon 
some  remote  distance,  "  I,  too,  have  been  lonely. 

37 


KATRINE 

The  only  companionable  person  within  hundreds 
of  miles  has  refused  me  her  society.  I  have  been 
driven,  as  it  were,  to  the  world's  end." 

"Do  you  mean  me?"  Katrine  asked,  smiling, 
and  looking  at  him  with  eyes  full  of  surprise. 

"  It  is  perhaps  Nora  to  whom  I  refer,"  he  sug 
gested,  whimsically. 

"She  is  not  always  companionable  —  Nora," 
Katrine  returned;  "and  to-day  she  is  not  pleased 
with  me,  so  I  like  her  less  than  usual.  She  pur 
posed  to  cook  nettles  in  the  potatoes,  and  I  re 
monstrated,  and  —  I  have  not  absented  myself 
from  your  society,"  she  said,  abruptly  breaking 
her  talk  after  a  woman's  way. 

'Then  why  didn't  you  watch  the  sunsei  from 
the  Chestnut  Ridge  last  night  and  the  night  be 
fore  and  the  night  before  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why  didn't  I  watch  the  sunset  from  the 
Chestnut  Ridge  ?"  she  repeated  after  him,  as 
though  not  understanding;  and  then,  with  a 
slow,  steady  smile,  looking  straight  in  his  eyes, 
"The  thought  never  occurred  to  me,"  she  said. 

No  studied  coquetry  could  have  piqued  him 
as  this  simple  statement,  which  he  felt  to  be  the 
plain  truth.  He  had  taken  three  long  walks  on 
the  off-chance  of  meeting  a  girl  who  apparently 
had  forgotten  his  existence,  and  although  the 

38 


KINDNESS  WITH    MIXED    MOTIVES 

thought  was  humorous  it  stirred  in  him  a  de 
termination  to  make  his  existence  a  remembered 
thing  to  her. 

"  But,  if  I  had  known,"  she  explained,  and  the 
selflessness  and  sweetness  of  her  as  she  spoke 
touched  him  strangely — "if  I  had  thought  you 
wanted  to  talk  to  me,  I  should  have  been  glad  to 
come." 

Fortunately  there  remained  to  him  a  dignified 
explanation  of  his  suggestion. 

"I  thought  you  might  come,  not  so  much  to 
see  the  sunsets  as  in  the  hope  of  seeing  me.  I 
promised  to  help  you  when  I  could.  I  thought 
you  might  be  interested  to  know  that  I  had  kept 
my  promise.  If  any  one  can  help  your  father  it 
is  Dr.  Johnston."  He  gave  the  letter  to  her  as 
he  spoke.  "He  is  coming  to  Ravenel  to-mor 
row." 

In  an  instant  her  face  softened;  her  eyes  be 
came  suffused  by  a  soft,  warm  light,  and  she 
looked  up  at  him  through  a  sudden  mist  of  tears. 

;'The  interview  must  be  arranged,"  he  went 
on.  But  Katrine  interrupted  him: 

"Ah!  It  will  be  easy  enough.  Father  is  as 
anxious  as  I  am  to  be  himself  again.  You  do 
not  know  daddy,  Mr.  Ravenel,"  she  explained, 
a  proud  loyalty  in  her  tone.  "He  has  not  been 

39 


KATRINE 

himself  before  you;  but  in  Paris,  in  Dublin,  he 
was  welcomed  everywhere;  his  wit  was  the  keen 
est,  with  never  an  edge  that  hurt;  his  stories  the 
brightest,  and  always  of  the  kind  that  made  you 
love  the  people  of  whom  they  were  told.  He 
will  be  home  to-night.  Will  the  doctor  come 
here  ?  I  want  to  tell  him  everything,  and  then, 
when  he  has  seen  father,  you  can  tell  me  what 
to  do.  You  see,  I  haven't  thanked  you  yet," 
she  said,  abruptly. 

"To  know  that  you  are  pleased  is  enough. 
Besides,  I  have,  on  some  few  occasions,  drifted 
into  doing  a  kind  act  for  the  act's  sake,"  he  said; 
adding:  "Not  often,  it's  true,  but  occasionally." 

"You  have  made  me,  oh,  so  happy,  and  hope 
ful — as  I  have  never  been  before  in  all  my 
life.  It  seems  like  one  of  the  fairy  stories  in 
which  one's  wishes  all  come  true." 

"And  if  it  were  given  you  to  have  whatever 
you  wished,  what  would  you  ask  for,  Katrine  ?" 

"To  have  father  well.  And  then,"  her  face 
became  illuminated,  "to  study  with  Josef." 

"Josef?"  He  repeated  the  great  name  inter 
rogatively. 

"You  have  not  heard  of  him  ?"  she  asked,  in 
credulously. 

He  made  a  sign  in  the  negative. 
40 


KINDNESS  WITH    MIXED    MOTIVES 


"He  is  the  greatest  teacher  in  the  world,"  she 
explained,  as  though  there  could  be  no  doubting. 

"Which  is  perhaps  the  reason  I  have  never 
heard  of  him,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile.  "From 
your  enthusiasm  I  am  led  to  judge  it  is  music 
which  he  teaches." 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  "but  he  teaches  more 
than  that.  I  knew  a  girl  in  Paris  who  studied 
with  him.  She  was  quite  intricate  and  self-seek 
ing  when  she  began.  And  in  six  months  he  had 
changed  her  whole  nature.  She  became  ele 
mental  and  direct,  and,"  she  put  her  hands  to 
gether  and  threw  them  apart  with  the  gesture 
which  he  knew  so  well,  "and  splendid!  Like 
Shakespeare's  women!"  she  finished. 

"Gracious  Heaven,  hear!"  said  Frank.  "And 
does  this  miracle-worker  live  uncrowned  ?" 

"Ah,  don't!"  she  said,  her  sincerity  and  enthu 
siasm  reproving  his  scoffing  tone.  "You  see" 
there  was  sweetness  and  an  apologetic  note  in 
her  voice  as  she  continued— "I  believe  in  him 
so  much  it  hurts  to  have  you  speak  so.  Josef 
says  that  when  woman  developed  to  the  point 
of  needing  more  education,  there  was  nothing 
ready  to  give  her  except  the  same  thing  they  gave 
men;  that  because  certain  studies  had  been 
proven  all  right  for  them  they  were  given  ready- 


KATRINE 


made  to  women,  and  they  didn't  fit.  He  believes 
women  should  be  trained  to  develop  the  thing  we 
call  their  instinct.  He  says  it's  the  psychic  force 
which  must  in  the  end  rule  the  world.  One  of 
the  girls  in  Paris  said  'he  stretched  your  soul." 

"I  shall  not  permit  you  to  go  to  him,"  Frank 
interrupted,   gravely. 

She  regarded  him,  a  question  in  her  glance. 
"Why?"  she  asked. 

"  Because  if  your  soul  was  any  larger,  Katrine, 
there  would  be  no  room  for  it  here  below.  It 
crowds  the  earth  a  little  as  it  is.  No,"  he  fin 
ished,  with  conviction,  "you  shall  never  go  to 
study  with  Josef.  Music  is  all  right.  But  that 
soul- stretching"  -he  smiled  at  this  phrase  — 
"that  would  be  all  wrong  for  you.  I  want  you 
exactly  as  you  are." 


IV 

THE    PROMISE    IN    THE    ROSE    GARDEN 

A  SILENCE  fell  between  them,  broken  only 
•*»•  by  the  whirring  of  Nora's  wheel  and  the 
robin's  chatter  before  Katrine  inquired: 

"Are  you  still  bent  on  that  expedition  to  that 
world's  end  ?" 

"I  could,"  he  returned,  "be  persuaded  from 
it,  or  at  least  to  postpone  it.  If  by  any  chance  I 
were  invited  to  luncheon  in  a  certain  garden— 
an  old-fashioned  garden,  with  box  and  peonies, 
and,"  he  raised  his  head  to  look  down  over 
the  flowers — "and  some  queer  purple  things  like 
bells  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  under  a  trellis 
of  roses,  with— 

"Me,"  she  interrupted,  with  a  laugh.  "We'll 
make  a  party,  as  the  children  say.  Nora  will 
give  us  broiled  chicken  and  yellow  wine  in  the 
long-necked  glasses,  and  cake  with  nuts  in  it,  and 
you,"  she  stopped  for  a  second,  the  dimple  in  the 
left  cheek  showing  itself,  "will  give  all  of  your 

43 


KATRINE 

nuts  to  me;  for  it  is  well  to  sacrifice  for  another," 
she  said,  with  a  laugh,  "and  exceeding  well," 
she  added,  "that  I  should  have  the  nuts." 

Having  ordered  the  luncheon,  they  went  to 
gether  down  the  gravelled  pathway  to  the  grape 
arbor,  which  was  grown  over  with  sweet,  old- 
fashioned  climbing  roses,  through  which  the  sun 
light  filtered  in  wavy  lights  on  the  quaint  low 
rocker,  the  long  rattan  couch,  the  pillows  of  gay 
hue,  the  table  covered  with  books  and  sewing. 
Frank  paused  at  the  archway  and  looked  in. 

"I  have  found  it,"  he  said. 

"What?"  she  asked. 

"The  world's  end,"  he  answered. 

"You  must,"  she  explained,  "really  to  ap 
preciate  this  place,  lie  on  the  couch  so  that 
you  may  see  the  wistaria  on  the  gray  wall.  You 
should  then  light  a  cigarette  and  have  the  table 
brought  near,  that  you  may  ring  for  what  you 
want."  She  moved  the  table  toward  him  as  she 
spoke.  "And  I  will  take  this  chair  beside  you. 
If  you  want  me  to  talk  to  you  I  shall  do  so;  if 
you  want  me  to  sing,  I  will  do  that;  or  if  the  king 
desires  silence" — she  made  an  obeisance  before 
him  as  of  great  humility— "I  can  even  accom 
plish  that,  though  it  is  difficult  for  a  woman," 
she  added,  with  a  laugh. 

44 


THE   PROMISE  IN  THE  ROSE  GARDEN 

It  was  dangerous  repayment  of  a  kindness: 
this  entire  forgetfulness  of  herself  in  her  grati 
tude  to  him;  this  essence  of  the  wine  of  flattery, 
of  Irish  flattery,  which  has  ever  a  peculiar  bou 
quet  of  its  own. 

"You  have  a  good  friend  in  McDermott," 
Francis  said,  abruptly. 

"Yes;  he  has  been  kind  to  us,  most  kind," 
Katrine  answered. 

"For  old  sake's  sake?"  Frank  suggested. 

"Scarcely  for  that.  We  never  knew  him  until 
father  met  him  quite  by  accident  in  New  York 
two  years  ago." 

"Didn't  they  fight  together  in  India?"  Frank 
inquired. 

"In  India!"  Katrine  repeated.  "Father  was 
never  in  India.  Will  some  one  have  been  telling 
you  that  McDermott  and  he  fought  together  in 
India,  Mr.  Ravenel  ?"  she  asked,  in  astonishment. 

Frank  sat  upright,  regarding  her  with  amaze 
ment. 

"  Didn't  your  father  save  his  life  at  Ramazan  ?" 

It  was  Katrine's  turn  to  be  bewildered. 

"I  never  heard  of  Ramazan,"  she  said. 
"Where  is  it?" 

"And  he  was  not  present  at  your  father's  mar 
riage  in  Italy  ?" 

4  45 


KATRINE 

Katrine  shook  her  head;  but  to  Ravenel's  as 
tonishment  she  began  to  wear  an  amused  smile 
as  he  repeated  McDermott's  tale  to  her  bit  by 
bit. 

"I  understand,"  she  explained,  "my  father 
saved  him  from  a  horrible  attack  of  the  measles 
in  New  York.  They  thought  for  weeks  that  he 
would  die." 

"But  why,"  Frank  demanded,  "didn't  he  say 
just  that  ?" 

"He  couldn't!"  Katrine  stated,  as  simply  and 
uncritically  as  a  child.  "You  see,  he  has  the  soul 
of  an  artist,  and  there's  something  about  a  man 
of  thirty  dying  of  measles  impossible  for  the 
artistic  temperament  to  contemplate.  Ah!"  she 
said,  with  gentle  pleading  in  her  voice  for  an  ab 
sent  friend,  "he's  the  greatest  liar  as  well  as 
the  most  truthful  person  alive;  but  you've  got 
to  be  Irish  to  understand  how  that  thing  can  be. 
He  couldn't  say  my  father  saved  him  from  the 
measles.  The  story  of  India  sounds  better — 
and  no  one  is  hurt.  Can't  ye  understand  ?  The 
gratitude  for  service  rendered  is  the  great  thing; 
to  remember  a  kindness  has  been  done;  and 
whether  he  gives  as  reason  for  his  gratitude  Ra- 
mazan  or  the  measles,  what  is  the  difference  ?  Do 
you  know" — there  came  an  apologetic  look  and 

46 


THE  PROMISE  IN  THE  ROSE  GARDEN 

blush  to  her  face  as  she  spoke,  "that  I  myself, 
when  it  comes  to  things  of  the  heart — "  she  ended 
the  sentence  with  a  laugh  and  a  gesture  of  self- 
depreciation.  'There  was  once  a  little  child  in 
Killybegs,"  she  explained,  "a  girl,  who  wanted 
to  be  a  boy,  and  she  cried  all  of  the  time  be 
cause  she  wasn't.  So  I  told  her  she  was  a  boy, 
and  it  comforted  her  for  quite  a  year.  You  see, 
it  made  her  happy." 

"Oh,"  Francis  laughed,  "you  incomprehen 
sible  Celts!" 

"Incomprehensible,  indeed!"  she  said.  "In 
comprehensible  !" 

A  singing  voice  broke  the  talk,  rolling  strongly, 
vibrantly  through  the  leaves,  a  lawless,  insistent 
voice,  and  Dermott  McDermott,  with  the  reins 
loosened  on  his  horse's  neck,  and  his  ardent  eyes 
looking  upward  to  heaven's  blue,  rode  by  the 
other  side  of  the  privet  hedge: 

"'War-battered  dogs  are  we, 

Fighters  in  every  clime, 
Fillers  of  trench  and  grave, 

Mockers  be-mocked  by  time. 
War  dogs  hungry  and  gray, 

Gnawing  a  naked  bone, 
Fighting  in  every  clime 

Every  cause  but  our  own.'" 

47 


KATRINE 

"Katrine,"  Frank  said,  as  they  listened  to  the 
singing  die  away,  "what  is  Dermott  McDermott 
doing  in  the  Carolinas  ?  That  story  of  the  Main- 
waring  titles  is  nonsense.  He  is  here  on  some 
other  business." 

"I  am  not  sure,"  she  answered.  "I  cannot 
be  certain,  but  I  think  it  has  something  to  do 
with  Ravenel.  I  think  it  has  to  do  with  you." 

"With  me?"  Frank  sat  erect.  "Do  you 
know,"  he  said,  after  some  thought,  "absurd  as 
it  may  seem,  Katrine,  I  think  so,  too." 

The  sun  was  far  behind  the  pines  when  he 
rose  to  leave,  flattered,  softened,  with  the  remem 
brance  of  caressing  gray  eyes,  of  a  voice  full  of 
strange  cadence,  and  speech  with  quaint  humor 
and  dramatic  turns  to  the  sentences. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  standing  by  the  boxwood 
arch.  "  I  am  your  debtor,  Miss  Dulany,  for  one 
perfectly  happy  day." 

"My  debtor!"  she  repeated,  looking  at  him 
through  sudden  tears.  "I've  known  rich  men 
before  now,  men  richer  than  you,  Mr.  Rave 
nel;  and  great  men,  though  none  greater  than 
yourself;  and  handsome  men  as  well,  though 
here" — and  the  mutinous  humor  of  her  showed 
in  the  speech — "I  can't  truthfully  say  I've  ever 

48 


THE  PROMISE  IN  THE  ROSE  GARDEN 

seen  any  handsomer  than  you  are  this  minute,  as 
you  stand  looking  down  at  me.  It's  your  eyes, 
or  something  in  your  nature,  perhaps,  that  sets 
you  apart  from  others  in  your  looks.  But  be 
that  all  as  it  may,  it's  neither  your  riches  nor 
your  birth  nor  your  good  looks  that  I  am  think 
ing  about,  but  your  kind  heart.  I  shall  never 
forget  you,  never  in  all  my  life,  for  what  you've 
done  for  me;  and  if  the  time  ever  comes  when 
you  need  a  friend,  for  sometimes  a  man  needs 
the  help  that  only  a  woman  can  give,  will  you 
remember  me  then,  for  I'll  come  from  the  ends 
of  the  earth  to  serve  you  ?"  And  before  he  was 
aware  of  such  an  intention,  in  an  ecstasy  of  grati 
tude,  she  raised  his  hand  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it. 


FRANK    FALLS    FURTHER    UNDER    KATRINE  S 
INFLUENCE 

WHEN  Frank  came  out  on  the  porch  the 
next  morning  at  Ravenel,  he  found  Patrick 
Dulany  waiting  on  horse  by  the  main  steps.  It 
was  the  first  time  the  two  men  had  met  in  day 
light,  and  with  the  keenest  interest  Mr.  Ravenel 
inspected  his  strange  overseer;  for  in  the  week 
since  his  return  he  had  heard  much  of  his  wit 
and  his  ability. 

He  found  him  to  be  a  large  man  with  a  broad 
face  tanned  to  the  hue  of  a  mulatto.  His  eyes 
were  light  blue  with  the  fulness  under  them  of 
people  who  have  gift  in  speech.  His  silver  hair, 
of  which,  he  had  a  great  quantity,  set  strangely 
around  his  dark  face,  falling  low  over  a  brow 
markedly  intellectual.  But  it  was  the  mouth 
and  chin  at  which  Ravenel  most  wondered,  for 
their  lines  were  strong,  the  lips  full  and  finely 
chiselled,  showing,  one  could  have  sworn,  high 
birth  and  great  resolution. 

50 


UNDER    HER    INFLUENCE 

His  clothes  were  of  tweed,  with  a  riding-cap  far 
back  on  his  head,  and  he  rode  with  an  excellent 
seat.  Upon  seeing  Mr.  Ravenel  he  dismounted, 
removed  his  cap,  and  advanced  with  outstretched 
hand,  in  the  manner  of  one  welcoming  home  an 
old  friend. 

'Twas  the  sawmill  business  that  kept  me 
from  seeing  you  sooner,  Mr.  Ravenel,"  he  began. 
"  But  Katrine's  been  telling  me  of  you,  with  some 
worry,  I  think,  in  her  gentle  soul  for  fear  that 
you  may  not  understand  our  friend  McDermott." 

Francis  replied  with  a  comprehending  smile. 

"Now  that  I've  seen  ye,"  said  Dulany,  "I 
know  you'll  understand..  He  has  a  peculiarity 
of  nature.  He  likes  to  arrange  certain  unim 
portant  details  of  life  that  they  may  sound  better 
in  the  telling.  But  one  has  a  small  knowledge 
of  human  nature  if  he  discount  McDermott  be 
cause  of  this.  In  Ireland  his  name  is  a  house 
hold  word.  He's  here  to-day,  gone  to-morrow. 
He  works  like  a  galley-slave;  his  word  is  as  good 
as  his  bond  when  given  in  honor.  And  'tis  for 
others  he  works  always.  Generous,  he  gives 
all,  all,  all!  his  work,  his  brain,  the  money  it 
earns,  everything!  His  is  a  great  soul,  a  very 
great  soul.  There's  not  a  man  in  America, 
barring  the  President,  who  has  his  personal 

5* 


KATRINE 


power.  Quietly,  his  name  unworded  in  the 
newspapers,  he  holds  Tammany  in  his  hand. 
I  can't  tell  you  how  enthusiastic  I  am  about 
him!  Mines,  politics,  Wall  Street,  he's  into 
them  all,  a  million  ideas  a  minute!  Helps  the 
chap  that's  down.  He  helps  every  one  with 
whom  he  comes  in  contact.  He  has  helped  me." 

His  sadness  of  tone  introduced  the  next  state 
ment  better  than  words  could  have  done. 

"Mr.  Ravenel,"  he  said,  "I  have  a  confession 
to  make  to  you.  I  drink."  He  looked  Frank 
squarely  in  the  face  as  he  spoke,  with  no  flinch 
ing.  "Ye  may  have  heard  it  from  one  or  an 
other  since  ye've  been  back.  It's  been  a  habit 
of  mine  for  some  time.  I  was  not  myself  the 
other  evening  when  I  met  you  on  the  hill.  The 
worst  of  it  is,"  and  he  spoke  the  words  brightly 
and  bravely,  "  I've  no  excuse  for  it,  if  there  can 
be  found  an  excusing  for  such  a  habit.  The 
thing  is  growing  upon  me  in  this  solitude.  I  try, 
God  alone  knows  how  I  try,  for  Katrine's  sake, 
to  resist;  but  only  those  who  have  fought  the 
thing  can  realize  what  its  temptations  are.  How 
ever,  I've  been  thinking  that  if  I  drink  too  much, 
or  fail  to  suit  you,  it  might  make  it  easier  for 
you  to  tell  me  to  go,  if  you  knew  it  would  be 
better  for  me  that  I  went." 

52 


UNDER    HER    INFLUENCE 

"I  am  hoping  that  you  will  not  find  it  neces 
sary  to  go,  Mr.  Dulany.  The  plantation  has 
never  been  in  better  shape." 

"And  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  sir,"  was 
the  answer.  "Well"  -hopefully — "things  may 
change  for  the  better  in  me,  and  so,  good-day," 
and  spurring  his  horse  he  was  off  at  a  gallop 
down  the  broad  road,  and  Ravenel  stood  listen 
ing  to  the  horse's  hoofs  clatter  over  the  bridge, 
strike  the  soft  road  under  the  pines,  and  die  away 
in  silence  before  he  turned  into  the  bridle-path 
which  led  to  the  stables. 

And  a  strange  thing  occurred  but  a  few  minutes 
after  this  interview,  when  Frank  made  his  daily 
visit  to  the  stables.  One  of  the  head  grooms 
explained  a  horse's  lameness  to  him  as  due  to  a 
bad  place  in  the  road  near  the  north  gate  which, 
he  finished,  would  probably  not  be  mended  until 
Mr.  Dulany  was  over  "his  coming  attack." 

"Is  he  drinking  again?"  Ravenel  asked. 

"For  three  days  past,"  the  groom  answered. 

Francis  made  no  comment  whatever,  but  the 
next  day  he  discovered  the  man's  suspicions  jus 
tified,  and  the  third,  as  he  rode  to  Marlton,  he  saw 
Katrine,  a  pale-faced,  desolate  little  figure,  sit 
ting  on  the  garden  bench,  her  head  in  her  hands, 
the  picture  of  despair.  About  five  o'clock  Jerry 

53 


KATRINE 

drove  to  the  station  for  Dr.  Johnston,  and  the 
same  evening  after  the  dinner  Nora  O'Grady's 
son,  a  red  -  haired,  unkempt  boy  of  seventeen, 
brought  a  short  letter  from  Katrine,  asking  that 
the  doctor  be  sent  as  soon  as  possible. 

"Mr.  Dulany  is  drinking?"  Frank  said,  in 
terrogatively,  to  the  youth. 

"Something  fierce,"  was  the  laconic  answer. 

"Is  he  better  this  evening?" 

"  Worse.    Heart's  actin'  up,"  the  boy  responded. 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  after  three  days  spent 
with  the  Dulanys,  at  the  old  lodge,  Dr.  Johnston 
and  Francis  sat  together  at  the  dinner-table  at 
Ravenel.  Mrs.  Ravenel  had  left  them,  and  the 
great  doctor,  in  the  admirably  restrained  and 
cautious  language  of  the  scientific  mind,  gave  his 
findings  in  the  case,  as  it  were. 

"Mr.  Dulany's  habits,"  the  great  doctor  be 
gan,  "I  should  say,  after  such  superficial  investi 
gation  as  I  have  been  able  to  make,  may  be 
cured.  One  thing  I  have  noted  with  pleasure.  • 
He  has  lost  none  of  his  mental  integrity.  He  is 
capable  of  the  truth  concerning  himself.  Gener 
ally  those  given  to  the  alcoholic  habit  deny  ev 
erything  or  secrete  everything  concerning  it  when 
sober.  Sometimes  they  are  sentimental  over  it, 
given  to  self-pity,  with  even  a  certain  desire  for 

54 


UNDER    HER    INFLUENCE 

dramatic  effects  in  the  statements  about  them 
selves.  Dulany  is  still,  so  far  as  I  can  judge, 
honest.  To-day  he  told  me  the  history  of  him 
self,  with  a  gay  humor  in  the  telling.  He  is  a 
descendant,  it  seems,  of  the  great  and  the  gifted. 
There  are  lawless  loves  behind  him,  a  pictur 
esque  ancestry,  artistic  and,  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  blanket,  aristocratic  as  well." 

"It  is  the  ancestry  of  genius,"  Francis  an 
swered. 

"It  is  the  ancestry  of  Katrine  Dulany,"  Dr. 
Johnston  returned,  looking  at  Frank  with  an  un 
translatable  smile. 

A  silence  fell  between  them,  broken  at  length 
by  the  doctor.  "I  have  decided  to  take  Mr. 
Dulany  to  New  York  with  me.  I  shall  keep  him 
near  me  as  long  as  is  necessary.  If  there  is  no 
organic  trouble,  of  which  I  have  some  fear,  the 
case  will  be  simple  enough,  if  there  is  the  desire 
in  him  to  help  me.  He  was  keen  to  have  his 
daughter  go  with  him,  but  I  told  him  frankly  it 
was  better  that  she  should  not  go.  He  leans  too 
much  on  her.  He  must  strengthen  his  own  will; 
he  must  learn  to  rely  on  himself." 

As  the  doctor  spoke  it  was  not  of  Patrick 
Dulany  that  Francis  thought,  but  of  Katrine. 
The  people  were  coming  on  the  twenty-seventh; 

55 


KATRINE 

it  was  now  but  the  seventeenth.  He  would  have 
her  to  himself  for  ten  days,  ten  days  of  those  ca 
ressing  eyes,  of  the  charming  voice  and  open  adu 
lation,  and  then  ?  He  closed  his  eyes  to  what 
ever  lay  beyond.  He  would  go  away  to  keep  his 
engagements  and  forget.  He  always  had  forgotten ; 
he  would,  he  thought,  be  able  always  to  forget. 

And  the  ten  days  were  his;  days  on  the  river 
fishing  by  the  Indian  Rocks,  or  drifting  with  the 
current  under  the  dogwoods'  white,  open  faces 
down  to  the  falls;  days  with  lunches  in  the  rose- 
garden,  and  Abt  and  Schubert  songs  under  the 
pines  at  twilight,  when  their  hands  touched  in  the 
exchange  of  a  flower  or  a  book  and  lingered  in 
the  touching;  when  their  eyes  had  learned  the 
answering  of  each  other  with  no  spoken  word. 
And  the  question  and  answer  were  the  same  in 
the  Garden  of  Eden,  before  man  and  woman 
made  their  first  great  mistake  and  did  the  thing 
that  was  intended  for  them  to  do. 

For  Frank  this  companionship  was  unutterably 
sweet.  He  enjoyed  the  small  and  unimportant 
events  of  their  intercourse;  the  way  Katrine  would 
save  flowers  for  him  to  wear,  pinning  them  in  his 
coat  with  a  flushed  cheek,  or  read,  with  an  ecstasy 
of  appreciation,  a  line  from  some  great  writer, 
marking  a  meaning  he  had  never  found,  or  laugh 

56 


UNDER    HER    INFLUENCE 

at  his  old  riding-clothes,  his  Southern  prejudices, 
saying  once:  "To  a  man  of  the  world  like  my 
self,  these  ideas  seem  trivial." 

On  one  of  these  ten  precious  days  the  lawyers 
at  Marlton  telephoned  him  to  obtain  an  interview. 
The  business  was  important,  and  he  started  im 
mediately  for  a  conference  with  them.  By  the 
fence  opening  into  the  main  road  from  the  lodge 
he  found  Katrine,  in  her  high-waisted  black 
frock,  looking  out  between  the  bars  of  the  great 
swinging  gate,  with  a  radiance  about  her,  an  in 
consequential  joy  such  as  he  had  never  seen  before 
in  any  human  being.  She  had  a  letter  tucked  in 
her  breast,  and  at  sight  of  him  she  touched  it. 

"He  is  getting  better,  better,  better,  and  the 
doctor  writes  he  may  be  quite  himself  again,"  she 
said,  with  no  salutation  whatever,  her  face  a 
wonder  to  behold. 

"  I  am  rejoiced  more  than  I  can  say,  Katrine," 
he  answered. 

"You  have  been  so  good,"  she  replied,  grate 
fully. 

'Thank  you,"  he  said,  gravely,  and  though 
the  words  were  trivial  the  manner  gave  them 
significance. 

"Were  you  coming  to  call  on  me  ?"  Katrine  in 
quired. 

57 


KATRINE 


Frank  shook  his  head.  "The  lawyers  at  Marl- 
ton  are  waiting  for  me." 

"Stay  with  me,"  she  said,  opening  her  hand 
and  showing  some  nuts,  as  though  they  might 
be  an  inducement  to  remain.  "It's  lonesome. 
I've  finished  practising.  Stay  with  me!" 

"Duty  calls,"  he  answered,  looking  down  at 
her. 

"Put  your  fingers  in  your  ears!  If  you  once 
listen  to  her,  you  can  never  hear  any  other  thing 
in  life."  She  folded  her  arms  on  one  of  the  bars 
of  the  gate,  resting  her  chin  upon  them,  as  she 
looked  up  at  him.  "  If  you  will  stay  with  me," 
she  hesitated,  searching  her  mind  for  further 
inducements,  "I'll  tell  you  tales  of  Killybegs 
and  the  Black  Bradley  Brothers,  who  hid  their 
sister  in  the  'pocheen'  barrel"  —she  waited  a 
minute — "and  of  the  wedding  of  Peggy  Menalis 
on  the  old  sea-wall." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"And  I'll  sing  you  a  funny  little  song  that  ends 
like  this: 


f-->f—  rr-= 

m 

_J  

rK  j. 

*            i                             • 

•- 

She  sang  the  tones  out  sweet  and  true  as  a  bird. 
"Is  she  calling  still  ?"  she  asked. 

58 


UNDER    HER    INFLUENCE 

"Who?"  Frank  asked,  not  following. 

"Duty,"  she  answered;  and  as  she  spoke  she 
shut  her  eyes  tight  and  drew  the  lids  together. 

"Somehow,  I  don't  hear  her  so  plainly  as  I 
did,"  he  returned,  with  a  laugh. 

There  was  another  pause,  filled  by  a  glance 
which  made  his  heart  throb. 

"And  if  you  stayed,"  she  went  on,  at  length,  "I 
could  tell  you  how  nice  you  are." 

Frank  smiled.  "I  don't  hear  her  at  all  now 
—that  Duty  person,"  he  said,  gayly. 

"You  are,"  she  hesitated,  "a  very  nice  man." 

He  kept  his  eyes  averted. 

"One  of  the  nicest  I  have  ever  known." 

He  fastened  his  eyes  on  the  Chestnut  Ridge. 

'The  nicest  of  all,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whis 
per,  her  eyes  brimming  over  with  laughter. 

At  the  words  he  sprang  to  the  ground  and 
stood  beside  her. 

"And  Duty?"  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it's  Duty  or  not,  but 
something  tells  me  that  there's  nothing  in  all  the 
world  of  any  importance  except  to  stay  with 
you,"  he  answered. 

But  with  his  acquiescence  there  came  the 
veering  in  her  moods  for  which  he  had  already 
learned  to  watch. 

59 


KATRINE 

"Where  were  you  going?"  she  asked. 

"The  lawyers  telephoned  for  me  from  Marl- 
ton." 

"  They  are  waiting  for  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  are  going  to  keep  them  waiting  be 
cause  I  asked  you  to  stay  ?" 

"Them  or  the  whole  world,"  he   answered. 

"  King  Francis,"  she  said,  with  a  courtesy, 
"  must  do  no  wrong.  Here  is  a  flower — a.  horrible 
one,  it  is  true,  but  the  only  one  I  have.  Wear  it, 
and  go  to  the  lawyer  men  and  think  of  me. 
Perhaps — this  evening—  '  she  hesitated. 

"May  I  come,"  he  said,  "early?" 

On  the  evening  of  the  twenty-sixth  they  sat 
on  the  mahogany  settle  together,  in  a  moon 
less  night,  the  lilacs  and  honeysuckle  a-bloom 
around  them. 

"All  those  people  are  coming  to-morrow.  I 
wish  they  were  in  some  other  place,"  he  ended, 
inadequately  considering  the  vehemence  of  his 
tone.  "Do  you,  Katrine?"  he  asked. 

She  did  not  answer  him. 

"Do  you,  Katrine?"  he  repeated,  insistently. 

There  was  no  response. 

"Do  you  wish  that  we  had  these  ten  happy 
60 


UNDER    HER    INFLUENCE 

days  to  live  over  ?     Do  you  wish  that  they  might 
come  again  ?     Will  you  miss  me  ?" 

She  turned  toward  him  with  a  wistful  look, 
letting  her  eyes  rest  in  his  as  she  spoke.  "I 
am  sorry  it  is  over.  I  shall  miss  you  more  than 
I  can  say." 

'Thank  you."  And  then,  with  a  mixture  of 
whimsicality  and  earnestness  he  continued:  "Do 
you  remember  the  talk  we  had  the  other  day  of 
Josef?" 

"Yes." 

"When  you  told  me  he  believed  women  to 
have  some  undeveloped  psychic  power  which, 
with  study,  could  be  developed  to  revolutionize 
the  world  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  it  so  clearly  as  that,  but  that  is 
what  he  means." 

"Do  you  believe  it,  Katrine  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Mr.  Ravenel." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  if  you  tried  to  help  me, 
even  if  I  were  far  away,  you  could  ?" 

"Again  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Ravenel." 

"I  do,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  thoroughly 
convinced.  "I  have  been  thinking  it  over,  and 
have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Josef  is  right. 
You  could  make  me  do  anything,  Katrine. 
Will  you  try  ?  In  these  days  to  come,  when  I 
s  61 


KATRINE 


am  away  with  all  those  people,  will  you  keep  me 
from  temptation  ?" 

She  hesitated  for  a  minute,  not  knowing 
whether  he  was  jesting  or  not. 

"Believe  me,"  she  said,  at  length,  "I  will  try." 


VI 

DERMOTT    GIVES    A   DINNER   AT   THE    OLD    LODGE 

THE  following  morning,  as  she  stood  clipping 
the  roses,  Dermott  McDermott  leaned  over 
the  hedge. 

"Will  you  marry  me,  Katrine  ?"  he  said,  with 
no  salutation  whatever. 

"Will  you  wait,"  she  inquired,  "till  I've  fin 
ished  cutting  the  roses  ?" 

"But  I'm  in  earnest,"  he  announced. 

She  held  the  clippers  in  her  gloved  hand  to 
shade  the  sun  from  her  eyes,  regarding  him  in  her 
friendly,  companionable  way. 

"Dermott,"  she  said,  "what  makes  you  such  a 
liar  ?"  The  word  as  she  spoke  it  of  him  seemed 
almost  a  compliment. 

"You've  been  associating,  I  fear,  with  some 
narrow  and  confined  spirit,  who  repeats  things  ex 
actly  as  they  occurred.  I've  more  imagination!" 
he  explained,  with  a  laugh.  "Why  should  I  not 
change  things  a  bit?"  he  continued.  "Every 

63 


KATRINE 

Irishman's  got  to  have  one  of  three  vices:  whis 
key,  love-making,  or  lying.  Mention  me  one  of 
any  distinction  who  had  none  of  these!" 

"There  was  St.  Patrick,"  Katrine  suggested, 
a  laugh  held  under  her  eyelids. 

"He's  so  remote  you  can  prove  nothing  against 
him.  Take  another  that  I  have  later  news  of." 

"Wellington." 

"He  was  never  an  Irishman." 

"And  Burke." 

"And  I'm  thinkin',  begging  your  pardon,  Mis 
tress  Katrine,  there  was  a  lady  to  be  explained 
away  in  his  case.  No,"  he  said,  waving  her  sug 
gestion  far  from  him,  "all  the  Irish  are  alike. 
They've,  as  I  say,  one  of  three  vices.  I  lie,  that's 
why  I'm  so  interestin',  especially  to  the  ladies. 
Suppose  I  say:  'Old  Mrs.  O'Hooligan  was 
tripped  by  a  dog  in  the  lane  yesterday!'  Who 
cares?  Not  one  soul  in  a  thousand!  But  in 
stead,  with  a  gesture:  'Did  ye  hear  of  the  start 
ling  adventure  of  Mrs.  O'Hooligan  ?  She  was 
coming  home  at  midnight  from  a  sick  friend's' 
(it's  well  to  throw  in  a  few  sympathetic  touches  if 
ye  can).  Suddenly  an  animal,  a  strange  animal, 
came  by,  something  like  a  mad  bull '  (of  course 
you  can  enlarge  or  diminish  the  animal  as  re 
quired;  in  the  mist  of  night  I  have  found  a 

64 


DERMOTT    GIVES    A    DINNER 

black  cat  very  telling).  *  She  saw  the  vision  quite 
plainly.  It  passed,  touched  her,  there  was  a 
word  in  the  air  whose  significance  she  was  un 
able  to  determine,  and  in  the  morning  the  friend 
was  well  —  or  dead/  For  conversational  pur 
poses  it  makes  no  difference." 

He  wore  a  broad  smile  as  he  spoke,  looking 
down  at  her  with  great  love  and  devotion. 

"Ye  see,  Mistress  Katrine,  the  ladies  like  a 
little  exaggeration.  There's  Mrs.  Ravenel  likes 
me  fine,  and  says  it's  my  temperament;  and 
Peggy  of  the  Poplars  is  crazy  about  me;  and 
hundreds  in  the  two  continents  who'd  marry  me 
at  a  second's  notice.  I'm  a  great  lover,"  he 
laughed  somewhat  uneasily,  keeping  his  eyes 
averted,  and  adding,  "when  I  don't  care!  Ye 
see,  a  woman  doesn't  mind  a  bit  of  exaggera 
tion  in  a  man's  love-making,"  he  went  on. 
"Now  there  was  Antony,  who  threw  a  world 
away.  What's  that!  One  world!  I'd  tell  her  I'd 
throw  away  a  universe  of  worlds.  Why  not  be 
extravagant!  It's  all,"  he  laughed  again  softly, 
"it's  all  'hot  air,'  anyway." 

"And  yet  you're  a  truthful  person,  Dermott 
McDermott.  There's  none  can  tell  the  truth 
more  bravely  or  with  greater  nicety  than  you," 
Katrine  broke  in. 

65 


KATRINE 


"When  I've  need  of  it,  and  it's  an  affair  of 
men,"  he  answered.  "Oh,  I  still  know  Truth 
when  I  meet  her.  We've  not  fallen  out  alto 
gether,  but  I  stick  to  it  that  she's  very  dry  com 
pany.  But  this  discussion,  after  all,  is  merely 
academic,"  he  said,  with  a  droll  smile.  "I  have 
come  to  you  in  a  perturbed  state  of  mind.  You 
have  refused  to  marry  me  thousands  of  times,  it 
is  true;  but  I  am  noble,  and  forgive.  To-morrow 
I  am  having  some  delicacies  sent  me  from  the 
North.  My  cook  is  a  duffer.  Now,  I  thought, 
why  can't  Katrine  Dulany  and  I  have  a  little 
dinner,  with  Nora  to  prepare  it,  Mr.  Ravenel 
asked  in,  and  all  be  happy  together  ?" 

"I  don't  think  Mr.  Ravenel  can  come.  There 
are  visitors  at  Ravenel  House,"  Katrine  explained. 

"He  can — and  I  think  he  will — leave  them  for 
one  evening,"  Dermott  answered. 

"I'm  the  only  human  being  alive  that  ye've 
not  hypnotized,  Frank  Ravenel!"  Dermott  cried, 
with  a  laugh,  as  the  three  of  them  sat  at  dinner 
at  the  Old  Lodge  the  evening  following  this  talk. 
"The  only  person  ye've  ever  known,  probably, 
who  did  not  fall  under  the  charm  of  the  ways 
and  the  eyes  of  you."  There  was  flattery  in  this 
of  such  a  subtle  kind  that  Katrine  looked  quickly 

66 


DERMOTT   GIVES    A    DINNER 

from  one  to  the  other,  for  with  woman's  intuition 
she  had  long  since  felt  the  antagonism  between 
them. 

"Ye  see,"  Dermott  went  on,  "I  underrated 
the  South  when  I  came  here.  You  Southerners 
understand  people  as  I  think  no  other  folk  on 
earth  understand  them.  That's  your  great 
strength,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  entirely 
to  Frank.  "Now,  in  a  business  matter  I  might, 
though  I'm  by  no  means  sure  of  it,  get  the  better 
of  you."  His  eyes  were  bland  and  frank  as  he 
spoke.  "  But  where  you  would  always  have  the 
advantage  is  in  knowing  the  people  you  may 
trust.  It's  a  great  gift  that.  The  greatest  knowl 
edge  of  all  is  to  know  people,  and  it  seems  to  be 
an  instinct  with  you,  Mr.  Ravenel!" 

Again  Katrine  looked  from  one  to  the  other, 
mystified,  as  Francis  sat  smiling  under  this  flat 
tery. 

"Shouldn't  there  be  accompanying  laurel 
wreaths  with  this  unsolicited  testimonial,  Mr. 
McDermott  ?"  he  inquired,  with  a  laugh. 

In  a  second  Dermott  took  warning,  left  the 
subject,  and  was  galloping  over  conversational 
fields  furthest  from  compliments  to  Frank. 

"About  the  trouble  over  your  Senator  here 
from  North  Carolina.  I'd  a  talk  with  the  Presi- 

67 


KATRINE 


dent  concerning  him,  and  it  was  mentioned, 
though  hiddenly,  that  the  White  House  does  not 
want  him  returned." 

And  later — 

"The  pork  bill!  Heavens!  I  saw  McClena- 
han  in  the  Senate  about  it,  and  I  said  to  him: 
'If  ye  stand  for  the  pork  bill,  ye'll  not  be  returned 
to  the  Senate  next  year.  I'll  see  to  it  myself.  I 
know  your  district.  God!  How  I  know  it!  You 
can  buy  every  vote  in  that  part  of  the  land  of  the 
free  and  home  of  the  brave  for  ten  dollars,  or  less 
—and  I've  the  money  to  do  it.'  He  didn't  vote 
for  it."  McDermott  finished  with  a  jolly  laugh. 

Again  and  again  during  the  dinner  he  discussed 
his  private  affairs  in  this  manner,  deferring  to 
Ravenel,  flattering  him  by  asking  opinions  on 
weighty  subjects,  listening  to  the  answers  with 
gloomy  attentiveness,  bewildering,  fascinating, 
dominating,  by  a  perfectly  conscious  use  of  every 
power  he  possessed. 

At  the  mention  of  a  coaching  party  which  had 
passed  Katrine's  house  the  day  before,  with 
Frank  driving  four-in-hand,  he  added  a  note  of 
gayety  to  the  dinner,  returning  at  the  same  time 
to  the  game  he  was  playing  with  Frank. 

"I  never  see  ye  drive,  Ravenel,"  he  cried,  "but 
I  think  of  the  olden  days.  Ye've  a  style  all  your 

68 


DERMOTT    GIVES   A    DINNER 

own  when  you  hold  the  lines.  Wait  a  minute! 
Wait  a  minute!  I'm  seized  with  rhyme."  He 
stood  silent,  his  eyes  drawn  together  at  the  cor 
ners,  his  gaze  concentrated,  glass  in  hand,  be 
fore  he  began  with  a  hypnotic  look  and  great 
lightness  of  bearing  to  recite,  waiting  every  lit 
tle  while  for  the  right  word  to  come  to  him: 

"When  Ravenel  drives  four-in-hand, 

There's  something  in  his  style  and  way 
That  takes  us  to  a  by-gone  day 
Of  statelier  times  and  manners  grand: 
When  ladies  gay, 
In  bright  array, 
And  patch  and  powder  held  their  sway." 

"I  rather  fancy  that  last!"  he  cried,  repeat 
ing  it: 

"  When  ladies  gay, 

In  bright  array, 
And  patch  and  powder  held  their  sway. 

"When  Ravenel  drives  four-in-hand, 
The  days  of  chivalry  return, 
Hearts  with  an  old-time  passion  burn, 
And  lords  and  ladies  fill  the  Strand, 
Our  thoughts  in  that  old  time  abide 
69 


KATRINE 

When  Raleigh  lived 

And  Rizzio  died, 
And  fair  Queen  Mary  sinned  and  sighed — 

That  olden  land, 

That  golden  land, 
When  Ravenel  drives  four-in-hand. 

'To  you,  Mr.  Ravenel!"  he  cried,  draining 
his  glass. 

"Thank  you,  McDermott,"  Francis  answered, 
with  a  pleased  smile,  "you  have,  indeed,  the  gift 
of  rhyme."  And  Katrine  knew  as  Frank  spoke 
that  his  distrust  of  Dermott  had  been  laid  aside 
for  the  present,  and  that  he  was  in  a  state  of 
mind  to  grant  anything  which  Dermott  might 
demand  of  him. 

The  thought  troubled  her  after  she  had  left 
them  together  for  the  coffee  and  cigars.  She 
had  believed  for  a  long  time,  as  she  had  told 
Frank  in  the  rose-garden,  that  Dermott  was  in 
Carolina  on  some  business  connected  with  Rave 
nel,  and  she  had  an  instinct  that  the  affair  was  to 
be  brought  to  a  head  to-night. 

From  her  place  in  the  hall  she  could  see  that 
Dermott  had  brought  his  chair  around  to  Frank's 
side  at  the  table,  and  she  heard  him  say: 

"You  know — or  probably,  with  your  celestial 
70 


DERMQTT    GIVES    A    DINNER 

indifference  to  business  affairs,  Ravenel,  you 
don't  know  that  there  is  a  small  piece  of  land 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Silver  Fork  which  be 
longs  to  your  estate.  In  looking  up  some  old 
titles  I  discovered  it.  It's  like  this."  He  drew 
a  note-book  from  his  pocket,  drawing  as  he 


KATRINE 

talked.  "Here's  Loon  Mountain.  Here's  the 
Silver  Fork.  Here's  the  Way  -  Home  River. 
Ye've  the  right,  I  discover,  to  the  land  marked 
R.  It's,  as  you  know,  of  small  value  to  you,  and 
I'm  wanting  it.  It's  a  vagary  of  mine.  I  may 
be  going  to  raise  eagles  on  it." 

At  the  words,  Katrine,  who  had  been  retun- 
ing  an  old  guitar,  took  alarm  and  was  alert  on 
the  instant.  Striking  it  quickly,  insistently,  she 
came  to  the  door  of  the  dining-room,  which 
framed  her  beauty  like  a  picture. 

"I'm  going  to  sing  you  an  Irish  song,  a  real 
Irish  song!"  she  cried,  gayly,  touching  the  strings. 

The  men  turned,  and  Francis,  with  the  land  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Silver  Fork  clear  out  of  his 
mind  at  sight  of  her,  came  near  the  doorway 
where  she  stood. 

"Come  all  ye  men  and  fair  maids 

And  listen  to  my  song, 
I'll  sing  of  Bloomin'  Caroline, 
Who  never  did  a  wrong. 

SHE 

Beats  the  fragrant  roses, 

She's  admired  by  all  aroun'. 

They  call  her  Bloomin'  Caroline, 
Of  Edinboro  Town." 

72 


DERMOTT    GIVES   A    DINNER 
She  played  an  interlude  carelessly. 

"Young  Henry,  being  a  Highland  lad, 

A-courting  her  he  came, 
And  when  her  parents  heard  of  it 
They  did  not  like  the  same. 

so 

She  bundled  up  her  costly  robes, 
The  stairs  came  tripping  down, 

And  away  went  Bloomin'  Caroline 
From  Edinboro  Town." 

Dermott  had  risen  and  stood  by  the  far  win 
dow,  looking  into  the  night.  Unseen  by  him,  she 
touched  Frank  on  the  sleeve. 

"Do  not  do  anything  he  asks  you  to  do  to 
night,"  she  whispered,  with  great  intensity,  and 
in  a  minute  more  was  back  at  the  singing. 

"They  had  not  been  in  London 
For  scarcely  half  a  year — 

and  before  the  song  ended  the  two  men  were 
joining  the  refrain,  taken  out  of  themselves  by 
her  beauty  and  charm. 

For  nearly  a  week  after  this  she  saw  neither 
of  them  again,  but  her  honest  soul  was  fretted 

73 


KATRINE 


by  the  word  she  had  given  against  a  true  friend; 
so,  when  she  saw  Dermott  riding  along  the  river- 
bank,  she  called  to  him  from  the  rocks  upon 
which  she  sat. 

"Dermott  McDermott,"  she  cried,  "come 
here!" 

He  rode  through  the  ferns  and  undergrowth 
toward  her,  as  she  stood  looking  up  at  him  with 
fearless  eyes. 

"  I've  done  something  I  want  to  tell  you,  some 
thing  you  won't  like,  for  it  was  going  against  you; 
and  it  makes  me  feel  that  I've  not  been  quite 
loyal  to  you,  you  that's  always  been  so  good  to 
me,  too."  The  quick  tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she 
spoke. 

He  dismounted  to  be  nearer  her,  and,  putting 
out  his  hand,  said: 

"There's  nothing  you  could  do  that's  not  for 
given.  You  hold  my  heart  in  the  hollow  of  your 
hand.  What  did  ye  do,  child  ?" 

"The  other  night  when  I  saw  you  turning  Mr. 
Ravenel  the  way  you  wanted  by  your  flattery  and 
your  hypnotic  presence,  I  knew  ye  wished  him  to 
do  something  for  you.  I  knew  when  you  told 
him  how  clever  he  was — cleverer  than  you  were 
yourself — that  it  must  be  something  very  great 
to  make  you  admit  a  thing  like  that.  And  when 

74 


DERMOTT    GIVES    A    DINNER 

you  were  not  near  I  warned  him  against  selling 
you  that  land.     I  said:  'Don't  do  anything  Der- 
mott   McDermott  wants   you   to   do   to-night." 
Here  she  broke  into  a  storm  of  weeping.     "You 
see,  he's  been  so  kind  to  me,"  she  explained. 

Dermott  stood  looking  at  her  with  pity  and 
admiration  as  he  put  his  hand  gently  on  her 
shoulder. 

"Ye  did  just  what  was  right,  little  lady;  just 
the  thing  that  any  sweet,  grateful  woman  should 
have  done.  You  understood  what  I  was  doing, 
thought  a  friend  might  be  cajoled  wrongly,  and 
warned  him  against  it.  I'm  proud  of  ye  for  it!" 
he  cried,  with  enthusiasm.  "Proud  of  you!" 
he  repeated.  "And  besides,"  he  added,  with  a 
laugh,  "  it  didn't  make  the  slightest  difference. 
He  did  it  anyhow!  We  signed  the  papers  to 
day!" 

'The  papers  for  what?"  she  demanded. 

"For  that  useless  bit  of  land  on  the  other  side 
of  the  fork,"  he  responded. 

"Dermott,"  she  said,  "you  play  fair,  don't 
you  ?  You  wouldn't  take  advantage  of  any 
one  ?" 

"Wouldn't  I  ?"  he  said.  "If  it  were  to  help 
you,  I'd  outwit  the  deil  himself,  Lady  Katrine." 


VII 

KATRINE'S  OWN  COUNTRY 

IN  the  following  fortnight  Francis  and  Katrine 
met  but  three  times. 

One  day,  having  grown  restless,  she  went  to 
walk,  taking  the  road  from  the  plantation  back 
into  the  mountains.  Returning  by  the  ford,  she 
heard  laughter  and  the  ring  of  horses'  hoofs,  and 
by  a  sudden  turn  of  the  road  came  directly  upon 
Frank,  who,  separated  from  a  party,  was  riding 
beside  Anne  Lennox.  At  first  sight  of  her  whom 
she  knew  instinctively  to  be  a  rival,  Katrine  was 
reminded  of  a  golden  peony,  for  the  pale-yellow 
hair,  bright  hazel  eyes  shot  with  yellow  light, 
and  thick,  creamy  skin  had  given  Anne  Lennox 
from  early  childhood  a  noticeable  and  flower-like 
beauty.  A  long -limbed,  slender,  full  -  breasted, 
laughing  woman,  with  square  shoulders  and  the 
carriage  of  one  much  accustomed  to  the  saddle, 
she  looked  with  curiosity  at  Katrine,  who  was 
standing  aside  beneath  the  elderberry-bushes  to 
permit  them  to  pass. 

76 


KATRINE'S   OWN    COUNTRY 

"As  I  was  saying,"  Anne  had  just  remarked, 
"when  you  act  as  you  have  done  since  I  have 
been  here,  Frank,  it's  always  a  woman.  At 
Biarritz,  you  remember,  it  was  Mrs.  Vaughn. 
That  beast  of  a  spring  at  Marno,  it  was  Mrs. 
Mclntire.  You  might  as  well  tell  me  who  it  is. 
You  will  in  the  end." 

"Upon  my  honor,  Anne —  "  Frank  began,  with 
a  laugh,  when  he  met  the  clear  eyes  of  Katrine 
looking  at  him  from  below. 

If  there  had  been  some  coldness,  some  resent 
ment  at  his  lack  of  attention  to  her,  or  implied 
jealousy  at  his  devotion  to  another,  he  could  have 
understood  it.  But  there  was  nothing  of  the 
kind.  In  those  eyes,  which  he  believed  the  most 
beautiful  in  the  world,  there  was  nothing  but  a 
glad  light  at  seeing  him,  a  bright  smile  of  recog 
nition  in  which  he  could  detect  neither  remem 
brance  nor  regret. 

Anne  Lennox  turned  her  keen  brown  eyes 
backward  to  look  at  Katrine  as  she  crossed  the 
bridge.  "Frank  Ravenel,"  she  exclaimed,  "if  a 
girl  who  looks  like  that  lives  near  you,  you  have 
been  making  love  to  her!  I  wonder  if  by  any 
chance  she  could  be  the  woman!" 

"She  is  the  daughter  of  the  new  overseer," 
Frank  answered;  and  his  tone  implied,  though 
6  77 


KATRINE 


the  words  were  not  spoken:  "and  by  this  reason 
out  of  the  class."  The  statement  was  made  with 
misleading  frankness,  and  Anne  Lennox,  under 
standing  his  pride,  put  the  affair  from  her  mind. 

The  next  time  of  meeting  between  Francis  and 
Katrine  was  one  morning  on  the  river  road.  Her 
cheeks  flushed  at  sight  of  him,  and  there  was  an 
odd  reserve  in  her  manner;  but  she  never  seemed 
more  beautiful. 

He  stood,  hat  in  hand,  wondering  at  her  si 
lence,  a  bit  amused. 

"It  is  a  pleasant  day,"  he  suggested,  at  length, 
remotely. 

"It  is  pleasant,"  she  answered,  with  averted 
eyes. 

"Unusual  weather  for  this  season,  don't  you 
think  ?"  he  went  on,  a  bit  of  teasing  in  his  tone. 

"I  haven't  thought  of  it,"  she  said,  concisely. 

"Suppose  you  think  about  it  now,"  he  sug 
gested,  jesting  still,  but  not  quite  at  ease  con 
cerning  her  mood. 

Suddenly  she  turned  toward  him,  her  face  suf 
fused,  her  eyes  troubled. 

"  Katrine,"  he  cried,  "what  is  the  matter  ?  Tell 
me!  Let  me  help  you!" 

"I'm  jealous,"  she  said,  simply. 

"Jealous!"  he  repeated.     "Of  whom?" 
78 


KATRINE'S   OWN    COUNTRY 

"You." 

She  had  clasped  her  hands  in  front  of  her,  and 
stood  with  her  chin  drawn  in,  looking  at  him  from 
under  a  tangle  of  dusky  hair. 

"You  poor  child,"  he  said,  moving  toward  her. 

"Don't!"  she  cried,  backing  away,  "don't  try 
to  comfort  me!  I've  always,  always  been  like 
this.  I  cannot  help  it.  Whenever  I  care  for 
anybody — oh,  it  never  made  any  difference 
whether  I  had  any  right  to  care  or  to  be  jealous! 
I  just  was;  and  it  hurts!"  She  put  her  hands 
suddenly  over  her  heart  and  began  to  speak  rap 
idly,  as  a  child  does  when  accumulated  trouble 
makes  silence  no  longer  possible.  "I  hated  her 
when  I  saw  she  was  with  you;  far  up  the  road, 
when  I  only  knew  she  was  a  woman;  and  when 
I  saw  her  nearer  I  hated  her  more.  She  is  so 
pretty,"  she  explained.  "  Are  you  going  to  marry 
her  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Not  exactly,"  he  answered,  grimly. 

"Good-bye!"  she  cried,  dropping  down  the 
river-bank  to  the  skiff. 

"Katrine!"  he  called. 

"I'm  not  coming  back!"  she  cried  through  the 
bushes.  "I'm  never  coming  back!  Good-bye!" 

Two  days  later  there  came  from  Ravenel 
House  a  polite  note,  cordial  by  the  book,  asking 

79 


KATRINE 

that  Miss  Dulany  come  to  them  for  dinner  on  the 
fifth;  and,  it  added,  perhaps  Miss  Dulany  might 
give  them  an  opportunity  to  hear  her  charming 
voice.  It  was  written  in  the  quaint,  old-fashioned 
hand  of  Mrs.  Ravenel. 

Katrine  read  it  with  a  curious  smile  around  her 
lips,  answering  while  the  messenger  waited.  She 
"regretted  extremely  that  a  cold";  she  paused 
a  minute  in  the  writing  to  reflect  on  the  way 
the  cold  had  come;  sitting  one  damp  afternoon 
in  the  rose-garden  with  the  son  of  the  writer  of 
this  extremely  polite  invitation;  "regretted  ex 
tremely  that  this  cold,  which  seemed  more  per 
sistent  than  such  things  generally  were,  prevented 
her  accepting  Mrs.  Ravenel's  most  kind  invita 
tion." 

The  third  meeting  was  an  intentional  one  on 
Frank's  part.  The  people  at  Ravenel  had  be 
come  unbearable,  and  with  no  thought  save  for 
Katrine's  society,  he  took  a  short  cut  through 
the  laurel  trees,  crossed  the  river  in  his  canoe, 
and  entered  the  lodge  garden  to  find  her  sitting 
on  the  broad  steps  of  the  house,  her  chin  resting 
in  her  hands.  There  was  an  exaltation  in  her 
little  being,  an  alluring  remoteness,  an  entire 
concentration  upon  her  own  thoughts,  which  one 
sees  in  a  child;  and  when  one  saw  her  thus, 

80 


KATRINE'S   OWN   COUNTRY 

dreaming  hillward,  one  knew  there  were  great 
ongoings  in  that  dusky  head  of  hers. 

At  sight  of  him  she  bowed  gravely,  moving  that 
he  might  have  nearly  all  the  rug  upon  which  she 
had  been  sitting,  not  minding  the  stones  for  her 
self  in  the  least.  Her  careless  generosity  spoke 
even  in  this  trifling  act. 

"You  are  bored?"  she  asked,  after  a  silence 
which  he  seemed  disinclined  to  break. 

"To  extinction,  little  lady,"  he  answered,  puff 
ing  a  cloud  of  smoke  into  the  hollyhocks.  "You 
see,  you  have  spoiled  me  for  those  others."  There 
was  another  pause.  "And  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  ?  Well,  I  practised,  and  planted  some  flow 
ers,  and  made  some  things  for  Miranda's  baby, 
and  then" — she  hesitated,  with  an  adorably  shy 
look  full  of  that  pathos,  which  made  so  many 
of  her  simplest  statements  seem  claims  for  pro 
tection,  "and  then  I  went  over  into  'My  Own 
Land.'  " 

He  regarded  her  for  a  minute,  his  approval 
of  her  showing  in  every  line  of  his  handsome  face. 
It  was  in  these  untouchable  moods  of  her,  when 
she  eluded  him  utterly,  when  she  took  him  out 
of  himself  entirely,  that  he  found  the  most  zest 
in  intercourse  with  her. 

"Is  it  a  long  journey  to  that  land  of  yours  ?" 
81 


KATRINE 

he  demanded,  gravely,  "making  believe"  with 
her. 

"Not  long,"  she  answered,  "but  sometimes 
difficult.  I  go  down  to  a  queer  gate;  I  never 
knew  where  I  got  that  gate,"  she  threw  in,  in  an 
explaining  way;  "and  let  down  the  bars  and 
walk  up  a  long  driveway  of  blue  pines,  and  there 
I  am!" 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  "though  I  think  it  shabby 
that  you've  never  told  me  of  your  property  before 
now." 

"I  found  this  country;  oh,  years  ago!  Of 
course,  I  have  changed  it  a  great  deal.  There 
was  only  one  house  at  first,  like  Kenilworth 
Castle,  only  much  larger,  with  those  heavenly, 
deep  windows.  And  I  have  taken  all  the  people 
I  liked  to  live  there— 

"Jolly,"  he  said;  adding,  hastily:  "But  not  in 
the  least  a  house-party  sort  of  thing,  is  it  ?  where 
they  play  bridge  and  drink  whiskey-sours  ?" 

Katrine  shook  her  head.  "These  people  live 
in  My  Country.  I've  stolen  some,  but  others 
come  of  their  own  accord.  They  are  very  great 
people.  Colonel  Newcome  is  the  host.  You 
know  him  ?" 

"Adsum,"  Frank  answered,  softly,  and  Ka 
trine  flashed  a  smile  of  appreciation  back  at  him. 

82 


KATRINE'S   OWN    COUNTRY 

"And  Henry  Esmond,"  she  went  on,  "I  have 
a  time  with  him.  Of  course,  he  never  really  mar 
ried  that  other  woman  and  went  to  live  in  Vir 
ginia.  He  adored  Beatrice  until  the  end,  and 
is  always  trying  to  have  her  with  him.  I've  had 
it  out  with  him!"  She  smiled  again,  as  at  a 
memory,  and  extended  one  hand  dramatically. 

"Henry  Esmond,'  I  said  (you  know  he's  a 
little  man,  so  I  looked  straight  in  his  eyes  as  I 
spoke),  'I  will  not  have  her  here  with  her  red 
stockings  and  their  silver  clocks.' 

"'  Ye've  listened  to  gossip  of  her,'  says  he. 

'Twas  you  yourself  that  rode  after  her  and 
the  King,  when  ye  crossed  swords  with  his  Maj 
esty  for  her  honor,'  said  I. 

"An  event  which  never  took  place,  believe 
me,'  said  he,  with  a  bow,  and  he  bows  like  a 
king. 

'Ye  lie  like  a  gentleman,'  said  I,  'and  I've 
pride  in  ye  for  it;  but  Beatrice  Esmond  never 
comes  in  here.'  And  then  I  just  told  the  truth 
to  him.  '  I've  had  jealousy  of  her  for  many 
years,  despite  her  morals,'  I  explained." 

Ravenel  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"Oh,  you  women!"  he  cried.  "Are  there 
many  ladies  resident  in  that  land  of  yours  ?" 

"Some;    not   many.     Di   Vernon,   of  course, 
83 


KATRINE 


and  Mary  Richling,  and  Dora,  whom  David 
Copperfield  never  had  sense  enough  to  appre 
ciate,  and  oh,  the  children!  Huckleberry  Finn 
and  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy!  The  Nigger  Jim 
tends  the  grounds,  you  know.  And  that  divine 
Harold  of  the  Dream  Days! 

"One  awful  day,"  she  went  on,  "when  every 
thing  seemed  wrong,"  the  quick  tears  came  to 
her  eyes  as  she  spoke,  "and  I  was  sick  and  dis 
graced  before  people  and  wanted  to  die,  I  went 
into  My  Own  Land,  and  there  was  Jean  Val- 
jean  at  the  bars  waiting  for  me.  He  smiled  as 
I  came." 

"Cheer  up,  Little  Irish  Lady!'  he  cried,  at 
sight  of  me,  'cheer  up!  There  is  reason  for 
everything  in  that  Great  Beyond  that  we'll  un 
derstand  some  day.'  And  that  night,  because  of 
his  strength,  I  went  to  sleep  comforted,  and  the 
next  morning  sang  the  'Ah!  Patria  mia'  quite 
nobly.  It  was  payment  for  the  suffering,  per 
haps.  Who  can  tell  ?" 

"And  whom,"  it  was  curious  how  Frank's 
jealousy  showed  in  the  question,  "whom  do 
you  like  best  of  all  these  tenant  folk  of  yours, 
Katrine  ?" 

"Ye'll  never  tell?"  She  turned  to  look  him 
full  in  the  eyes.  "Promise  me  ye'll  never  tell; 


KATRINE'S    OWN    COUNTRY 

for  if  the  word  of  it  gets  abroad  there'll  be  no 
keeping  him  in  bounds,  he's  so  filled  with  conceit 
of  himself  already."  She  leaned  toward  Frank 
and  whispered:  "It's  Alan  Breck.  Ah,"  she 
cried,  "you  feel  so  fine  and  sure  when  ye're  out 
with  him!  With  his  glittering  sword  and  his 
belt  of  gold,  and  the  way  he  takes  the  centre  of 
the  stage  and  the  speech  skin-fitted  to  the  oc 
casion.  It's  grand  to  be  with  him  then.  But 
it's  none  of  these  that  I  love  him  for.  Do  you 
remember  when  he  says  to  Catriona:  'I'm  a 
kind  of  henchman  to  Davie,'  she  quoted  Alan's 
words  with  a  deep-voiced  enthusiasm,  'and  what 
ever  he  cares  for  I've  got  to  care  for,  too.  I'm 
no'  so  very  bonny,  but  I'm  leal  to  them  I  love.1 
In  My  Land,  that  is  all  they  care  for.  They 
are  of  all  religions  and  times  and  climes,  but 
they  are  loyal,  every  one."  And,  turning  to  him 
suddenly,  she  brought  her  wee  bit  of  a  fist  down 
on  the  hard  stone,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes 
glorious  to  see.  "It's  all  there  is,  in  My  Land 
or  yours,  that  makes  life  worth  while — Loy 
alty!  The  'enduring  to  the  end.'  Even  if 
one's  none  so  bonny,  he  can  be  leal  to  them  he 
loves!" 

Frank  threw  his  cigar  away  and  moved  nearer 
to  her,  holding  out  his  hand  with  an  odd  com- 

85 


KATRINE 

bination  of  "make-believe"  and  real  pleading  in 
his  voice. 

"Katrine,  dear,"  he  said,  "take  me  to  live  in 
that  land  of  yours.  I  want  to  let  down  the  bars 
of  the  gate  you  don't  know  where  you  found,  and 
go  up  the  pine  driveway  to  meet  Colonel  New- 
come.  I  want  all  that  it  means  to  have  those 
people  for  intimate  friends." 

"One  must  make  one's  own  'Land,'  "  Katrine 
answered.  "And  besides,"  with  a  curious,  lov 
able  puckering  of  her  eyelids,  "men  mustn't 
dream  things.  Men  must  do." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Must  they  ?"  he  asked,  at  length.     "Why  ?" 

"  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,"  she  asked,  abruptly, 
"  that  you  might  work — ever,  I  mean — when  you 
were  a  boy  ?" 

"Never  for  a  second." 

"You  never  felt  that  you  would  like  to  take  a 
part  in  great  affairs,  as  other  men  do  ?" 

"Why  should  I,  Katrine?  I  have  all  the 
money  I  can  possibly  want.  Life  is  short.  I 
come  of  a  family  who  tire  of  living  quickly.  Say, 
for  instance,  I  live  until  I'm  sixty.  I  probably 
sha'n't,  you  know,  but  we'll  say  so  for  argu 
ment.  One-third  of  the  time  I  sleep,  which  re 
duces  the  real  living  to  forty  years.  Until  the 

86 


KATRINE'S    OWN    COUNTRY 

time  of  fifteen  one  doesn't  count,  anyway.  That 
gives  me  but  twenty-five  years  of  life.  Now,  I 
ask  you" — he  threw  back  his  head  as  he  spoke, 
his  face  charming  with  a  humorous  smile,  an 
illuminated  eye — "now,  I  ask  you,  if  you  would 
be  so  hard-hearted  as  to  desire  me — with  but 
twenty  -  five  years  at  my  disposal,  remember  — 
to  spend  them  in  a  treadmill  of  work  when  I 
might  be  spending  them  under  the  pines  and  the 
beeches  with  you,  Katrine — with  you!" 

She  had  clasped  her  knees,  making  of  herself 
a  magnetic  bunch  of  color  and  lovableness,  and 
she  let  her  eyes  rest  in  his  a  moment  before  she 
spoke.  "Don't  talk  that  way,  will  you  ?  I  like 
to  think  of  you  always  as  a  great  man — a  man  of 
action,  a  man  who  helps." 

They  regarded  each  other  steadily  for  a  full 
minute  before  he  said: 

"It  has  begun." 

"What?"  she  asked,  mystified. 

"That  mental  treatment  you  spoke  of  some 
time  ago.  You  are  having  a  terrible  effect  on 
me,  Katrine,  and  I  find  it  extremely  uncomfort 
able,"  he  added,  laughing. 


VIII 

FRANK   YIELDS   TO    TEMPTATION 

DURING  the  time  of  the  house  -  party  at 
Ravenel,  Katrine  gave  vent  to  the  natural 
rebellion  against  her  position  but  once.  Der- 
mott  was  away  on  some  business  in  New  York; 
the  daily  letter  from  Dr.  Johnston  concerning  her 
father's  condition  had  not  arrived;  and  she  had 
seen  the  gay  people  from  Ravenel  coach  past  her 
as  she  sat  alone  on  the  Chestnut  Ridge. 

For  nearly  a  week  she  had  been  sleeping  bad 
ly,  awakening  every  hour  or  two  through  the 
night  with  something — something  that  could  not 
be  put  aside — pressing  upon  her  soul. 

Huddled  in  a  sad  little  heap,  in  her  white 
gown  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  one  unbearable  night 
she  stretched  her  arms  along  the  coverlet,  sobbing 
out  to  the  everlasting  silence  the  questionings  as  to 
what  she  had  done  to  be  so  neglected  and  set  apart. 

"What  has  been  in  my  life  but  shame — shame 
which  was  not  mine  ?"  she  cried,  as  the  horror 

88 


FRANK    YIELDS   TO   TEMPTATION 

of  life  with  her  drunken  father  came  back  to  her. 
"Why  are  some  given  everything,"  she  demand 
ed,  "and  I  nothing?  Where  is  God's  justice? 
What  have  I  done;  oh,  what  have  I  done  ?" 

Out  in  the  wooded  silence  a  bird  began  to  sing 
a  mournful  melody.  Of  the  greatness  of  night 
he  sang,  and  dead  morns,  and  dropping  stars; 
of  dear  forgotten  things  and  loves  that  might 
have  been,  that  may  not  be;  of  passion  and  un 
fulfilled  desires,  and  through  the  pines  the  song 
entered  her  heart  like  a  response.  She  listened, 
not  as  a  girl  listening  to  a  bird,  but  as  one  artist 
listens  to  another  with  a  rapture  of  appreciation. 
And  the  music  comforted  her.  And  later,  in  the 
midst  of  great  sorrow,  she  saw  intended  signifi 
cance  in  the  occurrence. 

"It  was  an  answer,"  she  said,  "to  remind  me 
that  there  will  always  be  that  solace.  Give  me, 
oh  God,"  she  prayed,  "power  to  make  of  all  my 
sorrow  music  for  the  world!" 

The  day  following  her  midnight  protest  she 
heard  from  Nora  and  old  Caesar  that  the  guests 
at  Ravenel  had  gone;  heard  as  well  that  "old 
Miss  and  Marse  Frank  were  goin'  shortly"; 
heard  it  with  a  stirring  at  her  heart  of  physical 
pain  to  which  she  had  grown  used. 

On  the  evening  of  this  day,  a  warm  June  even- 


KATRINE 

ing,  she  expected  him  to  come,  and  dressed  as 
though  there  were  an  engagement  between  them 
to  spend  the  evening  together.  In  a  thin  white 
gown,  low  in  the  neck,  with  a  kerchief  of  filmy 
lace  knotted  in  front,  sleeves  that  fell  away  at 
the  elbow,  with  faint,  pink  roses  at  her  breast, 
her.  black  hair  turned  high  in  a  curly  knot,  she 
stood  in  the  old  rose-garden  when  he  came. 

He  wore  a  light  overcoat  over  his  evening 
dress,  and  stood  hatless  by  the  boxwood  arch 
looking  across  at  her. 

"  Katrine,"  he  said,  "  little  Katrine,  I  have  come 
back  to  you." 

His  face  was  illumined  as  he  spoke  her  name. 
The  peculiar  ability  to  express  more  than  he 
felt  was  always  his,  but  at  the  instant  he  felt  more 
than  he  was  able  to  express. 

"I  am  glad,"  she  answered,  not  moving  toward 
him  nor  offering  to  shake  hands.  It  seemed 
enough  that  he  was  there. 

"They  have  gone  at  last,"  he  said;  adding, 
piously:  "Thank  God!" 

"You  did  not  have  a  good  time?"  she  asked. 

"I  did  not." 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  baffling  him  by  the 
serenity  of  her  tone. 

"There  were  two  or  three  occasions  which 
90 


FRANK    YIELDS    TO    TEMPTATION 

stand  out  with  a  peculiarly  horrible  distinctness. 
One  was  the  time  we  had  an  all-day  picnic  at 
Bears'  Den.  Porter  Brawley  suggested  it,  and  I 
hope  he  will  suffer  for  it  in  eternity.  It  rained." 

Katrine  laughed. 

"And  there  was  an  evening  when  we  had 
charades,  for  which  nobody  had  the  least  gift  or 
training.  It  was  the  evening  you  were  to  come 
to  us.  Why  didn't  you,  Katrine  ?" 

"I  was  not  well,"  she  answered.  "But  I 
shouldn't  have  come  if  I'd  been  well,  Mr. 
Ravenel." 

She  seemed  to  him  so  perfect,  such  an  utterly 
desirable  being,  as  she  sat  with  roses  in  her  hand 
and  the  moonlight  shining  on  her  flower-like  face. 

Neither  noted  the  silence  which  fell  between 
them,  a  silence  which  spoke  more  than  language 
could  have  done,  for  language  had  become,  be 
tween  them,  an  unnecessary  thing. 

There  was  still  no  spoken  word  as  they  walked 
side  by  side  along  the  path  which  led  to  the  house. 
At  the  turn  into  the  wider  way  there  was  a  tall 
pine  -  tree,  the  boughs  beginning  high  from  the 
ground,  the  turf  beneath  them  covered  with  brown 
pine-needles.  There  was  a  bench  here,  upon 
which  they  had  often  sat  together.  In  the  moon 
light  this  place  under  the  tree  was  in  a  soft, 

91 


KATRINE 

warm  glow.  As  they  drew  near  it  Frank  spoke 
in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper.  "Sit  here, 
just  for  a  minute  ?" 

It  seemed  as  though  they  were  alone  together 
in  the  world.  In  the  moonlit  gloom  under  the 
pine  they  stood,  near,  nearer,  and  at  length  he 
put  his  arm  around  her  gently,  not  drawing  her 
toward  him,  only  letting  it  lie  around  her  waist, 
as  though  they  had  a  right  to  be  there,  heart  to 
heart,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night.  Standing 
thus,  he  felt  her  tremble,  noted  her  quickened 
breath,  and  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  breast  and 
shoulders  because  of  his  caress. 

Although  they  could  not  see  each  other  in  the 
gloom,  she  knew  his  lips  sought  hers.  By  an 
indefinable  instinct  she  turned  from  him  twice 
before  their  lips  met  in  a  long  kiss  of  passion  and 
content.  They  kissed  each  other  again  before 
he  drew  her  down  beside  him  on  the  garden 
bench  in  the  flower-scented  dusk. 

"You  care?"  she  asked,  in  a  whisper,  her 
breath  on  his  cheek. 

"More  than  I  thought  I  could  care  for  any 
thing  in  life,"  he  answered. 

It  was  after  ten  when  Nora's  shrill  voice  re 
called  them  to  themselves. 

92 


FRANK    YIELDS   TO    TEMPTATION 

Standing  together,  she  asked,  as  she  bade  him 
good-night:  "You — are — going — away  ?" 

For  answer  he  clasped  her  slim  white  hands 
behind  his  throat  and  drew  her  toward  him. 

"What  do  you  think  ?"  he  said,  his  lips  kissing 
hers  in  the  speaking  of  the  words. 

"I  hope  you  will  not  go." 

"  I  shall  not."  And  then :  "  Oh,  for  a  few  days, 
perhaps,  to  take  mother  to  Bar  Harbor;  but  I 
shall  come  back.  And  we'll  have  the  whole 
long  summer  together,  you  and  I;  you  and  I," 
he  repeated.  "Good-night.  Kiss  me,  Katrine!" 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  raising  her  lips  to  his; 
and  then,  almost  as  though  it  were  a  benediction, 
she  added:  "God  keep  you  always  just  as  you 
are,  beloved."  And  as  he  had  done  many  times 
before,  Francis  Ravenel  felt  powerless  before 
this  girl  who  gave  all,  asking  nothing  in  return. 


IX 

THE    TRUTH 

FRANK  did  not  leave  Ravenel  even  for  the 
few  days  which  he  had  mentioned  to  Katrine 
as  a  possibility.  Accompanied  only  by  her  maid, 
Mrs.  Ravenel  started  to  Bar  Harbor  without  him. 
June  drifted  into  July,  and  still  he  lingered  at 
the  plantation. 

And  all  the  summer  days  were  spent  with 
Katrine  Dulany.  At  first  he  believed  that  he 
would  probably  tire  of  the  whole  affair  quickly. 
He  was  surprised  to  find  that  he  did  not.  He 
found  her  always  new.  There  was  an  elusive 
quality  to  her,  days  when  she  would  barely  permit 
him  to  touch  her  hand,  when  she  dazzled  him  by 
the  audacity  of  her  thinking;  her  indifference  to 
him,  to  him  who  was  in  no  way  accustomed  to  in 
difference  in  women.  And  a  few  hours  later,  per 
chance,  he  would  return  to  find  a  girl  with  wistful 
eyes  and  speech  of  tenderness,  with  no  thought 
"  that  is  not  for  the  king,"  she  told  him  once. 

94 


THE    TRUTH 


No  word  of  marriage  was  spoken  between 
them;  if  Katrine  thought  such  an  event  possible, 
she  gave  no  sign,  spoke  no  word  concerning  it. 
If  he  came  early,  she  welcomed  him  with  shining 
eyes;  if  he  were  late,  this  incomprehensible  per 
son  bestowed  upon  him  exactly  the  same  smile 
and  glance  she  would  have  given  had  he  come 
two  hours  before. 

"I  have  kept  you  waiting  for  me,  I  am  afraid," 
he  said  one  day,  when  he  had  kept  an  engage 
ment  he  had  made  for  ten  o'clock  at  a  quarter  of 
twelve. 

That  morning  she  had  been  studying;  not  tones, 
but  German  Church  music,  and  already  she  had 
realized,  unformulatedly,  the  solace  in  the  exer 
cise  of  a  great  gift;  had  found  that  she  could  for 
get  trouble  in  the  world  of  inspired  wrork;  not  for 
long,  perhaps,  but  long  enough  to  have  peace  of 
mind  restored  to  her  and  strength  to  go  on  for 
another  day. 

"It  didn't  matter,"  she  said.  "I  practised. 
One  forgets  one  is  waiting  then." 

Finally  there  arose  in  him  an  absurd  jealousy 
of  this  gift  of  hers,  of  the  thing  which  seemed  to 
console  her  even  for  his  absence. 

"I  shall  learn  to  hate  your  music,"  he  said  one 
night,  when  she  had  drawn  herself  away  from 

95 


KATRINE 

him  to  listen  intently  to  the  song  of  a  nightingale 
in  the  pines. 

"Don't  do  that!"  she  said.  "Ah,  don't  do  that! 
Don't  you  see  that  it  is  all  I  have  for  my  own  in 
life;  all  I  shall  ever  have!" 

And  with  some  hidden,  mental  connection  be 
tween  his  words  and  the  act,  she  began  to  sing 
in  her  great,  lovely  voice: 

"Ask  nothing  more  of  mf,  sweet, 
All  I  can  give  you  I  give. 

Heart  of  my  heart,  were  it  more, 
More  shall  be  laid  at  your  feet. 
Love  that  should  help  thee  to  live, 

Song  that  should  bid  thee  to  soar. 
All  I  can  give  you  I  give; 

Ask  nothing  more,  nothing  more." 

She  asked,  neither  by  word  nor  look,  for 
any  expression  concerning  the  song;  but  as  the 
last  note  died  away  seated  herself  beside  him, 
chin  in  hand,  looking  far  past  him  into  the 
night. 

At  two  of  the  next  morning  he  awakened  with 
a  start.  He  was  alone  in  his  own  rooms  at 
Ravenel.  Looking  around  in  the  half-light  of 
the  window,  he  put  his  head  back  on  the  pillow 
with  the  air  of  one  awakened  from  a  feverish 

96 


THE   TRUTH 


dream.  But  sleep  had  vanished  for  the  night. 
Conscience  was  with  him.  The  time  had  come 
for  the  reckoning;  some  settlement  with  himself 
was  required. 

Where  was  he  going,  and  where  was  he  taking 
Katrine  Dulany  ?  Marriage  was  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  A  person  of  his  importance  did  not  make 
a  mesalliance.  He  owed  a  duty  to  all  the  Rave- 
nels  who  had  preceded  him,  to  those  who  would 
follow.  To  marry  suitably  was  the  first  duty  in 
life;  perhaps  it  was  the  only  one  which  he  ac 
knowledged.  Where  was  he  going?  He  lay  with 
open  eyes,  staring  at  the  ceiling  in  the  faint  light 
of  the  coming  dawn,  with  a  sense  of  physical  sick 
ness  at  the  thought  of  giving  Katrine  up,  of  letting 
her  go  out  of  his  life  forever.  He  had  told  her 
he  cared  more  for  her  than  he  had  ever  thought 

D 

it  possible  for  him  to  care  for  any  one.  That  was 
long  since,  back  in  the  times  before  he  had  known 
the  sweetness  of  her.  Now,  with  all  the  heart  he 
had  to  give,  he  had  learned  to  love  her,  to  long 
for  her  presence;  she  had  touched  a  new  chord 
in  his  nature,  one  which  he  had  never  known 
before  her  coming. 

He  would  not  give  her  up;  he  could  not.  Why 
should  he  ?  She  would  be  happier  with  him, 
even  though  wrongfully  his,  than  with  a  drunken 

97 


KATRINE 


father  in  the  forests  of  North  Carolina.  They 
would  go  to  Paris  together.  It  would  be  years 
before  he  would  care  to  marry.  But  at  the 
thought  Katrine's  eyes  came  back  to  him. 
Francis  the  King!  It  was  so  she  spoke  of  him, 
and  it  was  this  complete  trust  that  appealed  to 
all  the  best  within  him,  as  a  tenderness  born  of 
her  sweetness,  her  complete  loyalty,  raised  him 
beyond  his  own  selfishness,  and  he  resolved  to 
save  her,  save  her  even  from  himself. 

With  this  fixed  thought  he  rose  early  and, 
breakfastless,  went  out  into  the  dawn.  He  would 
go  away  and  leave  her.  He  would  see  her  once 
more  and  tell  her  the  truth  about  himself.  He 
would  make  it  clear  to  her,  "damnably  clear," 
he  said  to  himself,  with  a  set  chin.  She  would  be 
left  with  no  illusions  concerning  him.  It  would 
help  her  to  forget  to  know  him  as  he  really  was. 
He  felt  it  part  of  his  expiation  to  tell  her  the 
truth. 

As  he  rode  up  the  pathway  to  the  lodge  he 
was  white  to  the  lips.  His  eyes  were  sunken. 
All  the  passion  of  which  he  was  capable  longed 
for  this  woman  whom  he  was  about  to  surrender, 
perhaps  to  some  other.  He  winced  at  the  thought 
of  it. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  old  arbor  and  turned 


THE    TRUTH 


suddenly  at  the  sound  of  his  steps,  an  unopened 
book  dropping  from  her  hands  at  sight  of  him. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  anxiously, 
at  sight  of  his  white  face.  "Are  you  ill?" 

"Katrine!"  he  cried,  "it  is  shame — shame  at 
what  I  have  been  doing;  shame  at  the  way  I  have 
been  treating  you!" 

She  grew  suddenly  pale,  and  her  lips  parted  as 
she  stood  with  eyes  fastened  upon  him,  waiting 
for  him  to  go  on. 

"I  wanted  you  to  love  me,"  he  went  on.  "I 
wanted  it  from  the  first.  As  time  passed  I  learn 
ed  to  care  so  much  that  I  thought  of  nothing  else, 
wanted  nothing  else,  but  to  be  near  you.  But 
never,  never  for  one  instant,  and,  Katrine,  it  is 
of  this  you  must  think  always,  never  for  one  in 
stant  did  I  intend  to  marry  you!" 

She  placed  one  hand  against  the  bench  for 
support,  her  face  exquisitely  pale,  her  eyes  dark 
ened,  her  mouth  drawn;  but  she  regarded  him 
steadily  and  bravely  as  he  continued. 

"  I  might  make  excuses  for  my  conduct;  might 
even  lie  about  there  being  some  obstacles,  my 
mother's  objections,  the  rest  of  the  family,  but 
I  don't  want  to  do  that.  I  want  you  to  know 
the  truth  just  as  it  stands,  to  know  me  exactly 
as  I  am.  My  mother  would  object  to  my  marry- 

99 


KATRINE 


ing  you,  but  if  I  did  it  she  would  in  time  become 
reconciled.  I  have  my  way  with  her.  The  only 
thing  that  stands  between  us  is  my  pride,  family 
pride.  It  is  sending  me  away  from  you.  I  am 
going  to-day,  going  to-day,  because  I  do  not 
dare  to  stay." 

Still  she  spoke  no  word,  but  sat  looking  away 
from  him  into  the  ocean  of  roses. 

"For  God's  sake,  say  something  to  me,  Ka 
trine!"  he  cried,  at  length.  "Tell  me  even  that 
I  am  the  contemptible  cad  you  think  me  to  be; 
only  say  something.  I  cannot  endure  this.  With 
every  fibre  of  me  I  am  longing  to  take  you  in  my 
arms,  to  kiss  your  eyes  that  have  the  ache  in 
them.  God  knows  how  I  want  you  and  how  I 
am  suffering!" 

Her  lips  quivered  for  an  instant  before  she  con 
trolled  herself  to  speak. 

'There  seems  nothing  to  say  except  'Good 
bye.'" 

Her  voice  was  infinitely  sad  and  tender.  There 
was  neither  anger  nor  resentment  in  it,  and  she 
rose  as  though  to  leave  him,  but  he  held  her 
back.  Trie  great  womanliness  of  her,  the  ability 
to  suffer  in  silence,  and  the  dignity  of  such  a  si 
lence  touched  him  strangely.  There  was  a  sob 
in  his  throat  as  he  spoke. 

100 


THE    TRUTH 


"  Forgive  me!"  he  said.  "  Oh,  say  you  forgive 
me,  Katrine!" 

"Dear,"  she  answered — and  as  she  spoke  she 
put  her  hand  on  his  brown  hair,  as  a  mother 
might  have  done,  "  I  don't  want  you  to  suffer 
like  this.  I  might  have  known,  had  I  thought 
about  it  at  all,  that  you  would  never  marry  me. 
But  it  seemed  so  perfect  as  it  was,  I  never  thought 
at  all,  I  just,"  it  seemed  as  though  she  were  say 
ing  her  worst  to  him,  "I  just  trusted  you." 

He  flung  out  one  arm  as  though  to  protect 
himself  from  a  physical  blow,  and  a  moan  es 
caped  him. 

"Let  me  tell  you  about  myself,"  she  continued; 
"it  will  be  best,  for  we  may  never  meet  again. 
Oh,  please  God,"  she  cried,  suddenly,  "we  may 
never  meet  again  in  this  world!" 

The  tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  and 
she  sobbed  aloud  as  she  spoke.  He  reached  his 
arms  toward  her,  but  she  moved  away,  sitting 
silent  until  she  regained  such  composure  as  would 
permit  her  to  go  on. 

'The  first  thing  I  remember  in  my  life,  I 
must  have  been  about  three,  was  my  father's 
beating  his  head  against  the  wall  of  the  room  in 
which  I  was  sleeping  because  my  mother  had  left 
him.  After  that  I  became  used  to  anything — 

101 


KATRINE 

to  sudden  moves  in  the  dark;  to  being  alone 
with  him  through  the  long  nights  when  he  had 
been  drinking;  to  poverty,  to  black  poverty  that 
means  not  enough  to  eat  nor  enough  clothes  to 
keep  one  warm;  to  years  and  years  of  want  and 
despair  and  misery.  As  I  grew  older  and  went 
to  the  convent  schools,  some  of  the  girls  invited 
me  home  with  them.  It  was  because  of  my  looks 
and  my  voice,  you  know."  There  was  sweet 
humility  in  the  statement,  as  though  apologizing 
for  the  fact  that  she  had  been  desired.  "And 
they  were  quite  kind.  Their  parents  liked  me, 
and  one  of  them,  I  remember,  said:  'She  has  a 
beautiful  manner,  which  is  wonderful  consider 
ing  she  is  little  better  than  a  child  of  the  streets.' 
I  could  not  feel  even  then  how  I  was  to  blame  for 
my  birth,  seeing  that  it  was  a  thing  arranged  for 
me  by  the  good  God.  But  I  learned  what  to 
expect. 

"As  father  grew  worse  and  less  able  to  care 
for  himself,  it  was  necessary  to  have  money. 
Mr.  Ravenel,  I  have  been  a  beggar  in  the  streets! 
I  have  sung  in  the  streets,  I!  in  the  court-yards 
of  the  hotels,  for  money  to  keep  from  starving! 
So  you  will  see  sorrow  is  no  new  thing  to  me.  I 
do  not  question  it.  I  have  had  in  my  life  three 
perfectly  happy  months,  perfectly  happy.  It  is 

102 


THE    TRUTH 


as  much  as  a  woman  can  expect,  perhaps,  and 
though  it  kill  me,  though  it  kill  me,  I  shall 
never  regret  having  known  and  loved  you."  She 
paused  a  minute.  "When  one  has  to  die  it  is 
best  to  go  quickly,  is  it  not  ?  When  there  is  some 
terrible  thing  in  life  to  do,  it  were  best  done 
quickly  as  well.  Good-bye,"  she  said,  putting 
out  her  hand. 

He  shook  his  head.  "If  I  touch  you  I  shall 
not  go.  Oh,  Katrine,  Katrine,  Katrine!  Do 
you  know  what  I  am  doing  ?  I  am  going  when 
I  could  stay,  stay,  or  take  you  with  me!  Will 
you  remember  it  in  the  years  to  come,  when  you 
are  older  and  will  understand  what  it  means  ? 
Will  you,  oh,  for  God's  sake,  Katrine,  remember 
that  there  was  still  some  little  good  in  me,  that 
although  I  did  not  do  the  best  I  could  have  done 
for  you,  at  least  I  kept  myself  from  doing  the 
worst  ?" 

A  scarlet  flush  suffused  her  face  at  his  words. 

"Ah,  don't!"  she  cried,  putting  out  her  hand, 
as  though  to  ward  off  a  blow.  "Don't!  Don't 
say  it!  Don't  even  think  it!  Believe  me,  it  could 
never  have  been  like  that!  I  should  have  died 
first!" 


X 

TO    TRY    TO    UNDERSTAND 

SHE  turned  and  left  him,  walking  quietly  along 
the  narrow  path  through  the  narrowed  field 
under  the  silent  pines.  The  feeling  of  death 
was  upon  her.  She  wanted  to  cover  her  eyes, 
to  blot  out  the  sun,  to  run  to  some  friendly  dark 
ness  to  make  her  moan.  She  knew  he  was  watch 
ing  her,  however,  and  carried  her  head  well  up. 
She  hoped  that  he  could  not  see  that  her  hands 
were  clinched.  As  she  went  on,  her  cheeks  scar 
let,  her  carriage  splendidly  undejected,  the  wish 
came  to  her  that  she  could  sing.  It  would  prove 
to  him  that  she  had  the  will  not  to  let  this  thing 
crush  her,  not  to  be  as  other  women  might  have 
been.  But  her  sincere  soul  put  the  thought  aside 
because  of  its  untruth.  She  had  given  him  a 
great  honesty  always,  she  would  give  it  to  him 
until  the  end.  He  knew  she  suffered,  but  she 
desired  him  to  know  as  well  that  she  was  brave, 
that  her  spirit  was  unconquered,  that  she  would 

104 


TO    TRY   TO    UNDERSTAND 

do  something  rather  than  weakly  suffer  in  inef 
fectual  rebellion. 

On  the  crest  of  the  hill  she  turned  to  look  at 
him.  He  was  standing  with  his  eyes  fastened 
on  her,  the  strained  whiteness  of  his  face  marked 
out  against  the  black  of  his  horse's  mane. 

Across  the  distance  she  had  covered  their  eyes 
met.  The  slim  little  figure  in  the  black  frock 
outlined  against  the  blue  of  the  sky,  the  wind 
blowing  the  pines  over  her  head,  her  dusky  hair 
holding  the  sun,  her  skirts,  pushed  backward  by 
the  wind,  revealing  her  childish  body  full  of  ex 
quisite  vitality.  The  tears  stood  big  in  her  eyes, 
but  hers  was  a  soldier's  courage,  the  courage  to 
face  defeat,  a  thing  goodly  to  see  in  man  or 
woman.  Hastily  she  untied  the  scarlet  kerchief 
she  wore  around  her  throat  and  waved  it  to  him, 
high,  at  arm's-length,  like  a  flag  of  victory. 

"Ah,  don't  worry!  It's  all  right!"  she  called. 
"Don't  think  about  me!  Good-bye!" 

At  the  back  of  the  lodge,  down  by  the  brook, 
there  was  a  place  shut  in  by  bushes  and  roofed 
over  by  boughs,where  she  had  often  before  hidden 
her  grief.  Reaching  this  leafy  room,  she  threw 
herself  on  the  pine-needles,  moving  her  head 
from  side  to  side  as  if  in  physical  pain.  There 
was  shame  mixed  with  the  grief.  Remembered 

105 


KATRINE 


endearments  came  back  to  her;  his  head  had  lain 
on  her  bosom  one  night  when  she  had  tried  to 
ease  his  pain  by  her  small,  cool  hands.  The 
place  burned  over  her  heart,  and  she  pressed  her 
hand  to  her  side  as  though  to  stanch  a  wound. 

If  there  had  been  another  reason  for  his  con 
duct,  she  thought,  any  reason  save  the  one  he 
gave!  If  a  father  had  forbidden  marriage  be 
tween  them,  or  if  he  had  feared  the  anger  of  his 
mother,  her  pride,  at  least,  would  not  have  suf 
fered.  But  he  had  made  it  clear,  "damnably 
clear,"  as  he  has  stated  it,  that  the  only  obstacle 
to  his  marrying  her  was  his  own  will. 

But  he  had  suffered,  too.  She  had  seen  him 
white  and  haggard  with  longing  for  her,  and  she 
knew  pretence  too  well  to  doubt  that  thus  far 
she  was  the  supreme  attraction  in  his  life.  The 
thing  that  hung  black  over  all  was  the  unchange- 
ableness  of  the  cause  of  her  trouble.  She  could 
never  be  anything  but  Katrine  Dulany;  he  had 
decided  that  she  was  not  worthy  to  become 
Katrine  Ravenel.  Wherein,  then,  did  these 
Ravenels  excel  ?  Her  rebellious  Irish  heart  put 
questions  for  her  clear  head  to  answer.  Were 
they  a  generous,  high-minded,  clear-souled  peo 
ple  ?  Folk-tales,  passed  by  word  of  mouth,  of 
the  ill  doings  of  Francis  sixth,  as  well  as  Francis 

1 06 


TO    TRY    TO    UNDERSTAND 

fifth  of  the  name,  told  her  they  were  not.  Cer 
tain  dusky  faces  with  the  Ravenel  mouth  and 
chin  had  spoken  to  her  of  a  moral  code  before 
which  her  clean  soul  stood  abashed.  Were  they 
more  intelligent,  more  dignified,  more  refined  ? 
The  narrow-mindedness  of  them  answered  these 
questionings  in  the  negative.  Were  they;  and 
here  that  self-belief,  which  seems  placed  like  a 
shell  to  protect  all  genius,  entered  its  own,  de 
manding;  were  they  of  the  specially  gifted,  as 
she  knew  herself  to  be  ? 

But  through  the  turmoil  of  heated  thought  one 
idea  became  fixed,  however.  She  must  leave 
Carolina  and  work;  determinedly,  doggedly;  work 
to  save  her  reason.  Unformulated  plans  were 
taking  shape  in  her  mind  even  while  she  sobbed 
forth  her  grief.  If  she  could  but  study,  she 
thought! 

'There  must  "  — and  here  she  spoke  aloud,  her 
hands  clinched  in  the  pine-needles — "must,  must 
be  found  some  way  to  do  it!" 

And  by  some  curious  mental  twist,  as  she  made 
the  resolution,  there  came  back  to  her  the  words 
of  some  old  reading: 

"No  great  artistic  success  ever  came  to  any 
woman,  that  had  not  its  root  in  a  dead  love." 

As  she  lay  face  downward,  her  body  con- 
107 


KATRINE 


vulsed  with  weeping,  it  was  ordered  that  Dermott 
McDermott  should  take  a  short  cut  through  that 
part  of  the  grounds  to  the  boat-landing,  on  one 
of  his  lightning-like  trips  to  foreign  parts.  He 
had  just  encountered  Frank  riding  like  the  wind, 
his  face  haggard  and  drawn,  and  at  the  sight  of 
Katrine's  distress  he  drew  conclusions,  with  rage 
and  a  dancing  madness  in  his  eye. 

"If  ye've  hurt  her,  Frank  Ravenel,  if  I  find 
when  I  come  back  ye've  hurt  her,  you'll  answer 
to  me  for  it!  God!  how  you  will  answer  to 
me!"  he  cried. 

There  is  this  about  life:  that  frequently  when 
we  think  the  worst  has  happened  it  is  but  the 
forerunner  of  worse  to  come. 

As  Katrine  lay  tossed  by  misery  and  shame, 
Nora  O'Grady,  with  her  kilted  linsey-woolsey 
skirt  turned  up,  her  white  kerchief  loosened  over 
her  bosom,  and  her  brogans  twinkling  in  her  haste, 
came  running  along  the  road,  her  face  twitching 
with  sorrow.  Ever  and  anon  in  her  speed  she 
dried  her  eyes  on  her  apron  and  a  moan  escaped 
her. 

"Poor  heart!"  she  repeated.  "Poor  heart, 
she's  enough  to  bear  without  this  coming  to  her 
the  now!" 

1 08 


TO    TRY    TO    UNDERSTAND 

But  pushing  the  branches  aside,  she  spoke  in 
simulated  anger  to  Katrine,  a  pretence  which 
showed  well  the  peculiar  delicacy  of  her  class. 
It  was  not  for  the  like  of  her,  she  reasoned,  to 
know  the  truth  regarding  Miss  Katrine's  relation 
with  Mr.  Ravene);  and  yet  she  knew  as  accurate 
ly  as  if  the  scene  of  the  morning  had  taken  place 
before  her.  With  clear,  wise  eyes  she  had  dread 
ed  such  an  ending  the  summer  long.  Nothing, 
she  reasoned,  could  further  hurt  Katrine's  pride 
than  to  have  it  known  her  love  had  been  slighted, 
or  to  offer  sympathy,  no  matter  how  hiddenly. 
And  so  she  feigned  well  an  anger  she  was  far 
from  feeling,  in  an  intentional  misunderstanding. 

Looking  down  at  the  prostrate  figure,  she  be 
gan,  in  a  shrill  voice: 

"Honestly  to  God,  Miss  Katrine,  ye'll  hear 
another  word  of  this!  Crying  like  a  child  in  the 
middle  of  a  lot  of  damp  stickers  because  ye  can't 
have  music  as  ye  like!  Just  throw  yourself  round 
on  this  wet  ground  a  bit  more  an'  mayhap  He'll 
take  away  the  voice  He's  given  ye  already!  Per 
haps  it's  because  ye  cry  for  nothing  that  there's 
been  something  sent  ye  to  cry  for!"  And  here 
her  thought  of  suitable  conduct  was  lost  in  real 
grief. 

"Ah,  Miss  Katrine!     Miss  Katrine!    Your  fa- 


KATRINE 

ther,"  her  voice  broke  and  went  up  in  a  wail, 
"your  father's  come  home  to  ye— 

Katrine,  who  had  arisen,  stood  with  tear-stain 
ed  face  regarding  her.  "  He  is —  ?"  She  could 
not  go  on  with  the  question,  but  Nora  answered 
it  without  its  being  finished. 

"  He  has  not  been  drinking.  Oh,  Miss  Katrine, 
he's  past  that!  Can't  ye  understand  ?  The  hand 
of  God's  upon  him!  He's  called  away,  Miss  Ka 
trine.  Ye  should  have  seen  him  as  he  crawled 
to  the  doorway  and  fell  on  it.  I  got  him  to  his 
own  seat  by  the  window,  and  he's  wanting  you, 
Miss  Katrine,  he's  wanting  you  sore!  So  I  come, 
in  part  to  tell  you,  but  more  to  have  ye  prepare 
yerself  for  the  change  in  him,  for  his  end's  in 
sight!" 

Although  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot 
and  had  grown  ashen  pale,  Katrine  spoke  calmly. 

"He  came  alone  ?" 

Nora  shook  her  head  in  the  affirmative. 

"It  seems,  Miss  Katrine,  that  there  was  some 
organic  trouble;  that  the  great  specialist,  whose 
name  is  gone  from  me,  warned  him  not  to  try  the 
cure.  He  said  the  other  disease  was  too  far  along. 
But  your  father  wanted  to  be  himself  again.  It 
was  for  you  he  wanted  it.  It  was  the  disgrace  he 
was  to  you  that  was  on  his  mind  always." 

no 


TO    TRY    TO    UNDERSTAND 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  "there  was  still  enough  of 
the  old  pride  in  him  for  that!  We  must  pretend 
not  to  understand  that  he  is  ill,  we  must  try  just 
to  seem  glad  that  he  is  back  home  with  us  again." 

When  Katrine  entered  the  room  where  her 
father  sat,  she  found  him,  as  Nora  had  said,  by 
the  window,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes 
closed;  nor  did  he  open  them  at  her  coming, 
though  by  a  poor  movement  of  the  hands  he  made 
her  understand  his  knowledge  of  her  presence. 

"Little  Katrine,"  he  said,  while  two  great 
tears  welled  from  under  the  closed  lids.  "Little 
Bother-the-House!  I  have  come  back  to  you. 
There  is  no  one  can  help  me  except  you." 

Katrine  made  a  swift  movement  to  be  near 
him.  Kneeling,  she  drew  his  poor,  sorrowing 
head  to  her  breast,  and  in  the  twilight  these  two, 
the  one  so  old  and  weak  and  loving,  the  other 
so  young  and  desolate  and  brave,  clung  to  each 
other,  blinded  by  the  vision  of  the  separation  so 
soon  to  be. 

In  nearly  every  crisis  of  life  there  comes  some 
twist  in  affairs  which  seems  to  turn  the  screws 
harder  or  sets  them  to  making  one  flinch  in  a 
new  and  unexpected  place.  In  Katrine's  case  it 
was  a  turn  which  made  life  so  unbearable  that 
there  were  times  when  she  would  be  forced  to  bite 

in 


KATRINE 

her  lips  and  set  her  teeth  to  keep  back  a  moan, 
while  for  hours  at  a  time  Patrick  Dulany  iterated 
and  reiterated  the  kindness,  the  thoughtfulness, 
the  goodness  to  him  of  Francis  Ravenel. 

"There  was  never  a  day,  Katrine,  while  I  was 
at  the  hospital,  that  I  had  not  a  letter  from  him. 
Money  was  spent  for  me  like  water.  The  doctor 
told  me  he  had  orders  to  spare  nothing.  Ay, 
there's  not  another  man  in  the  world  who  would 
do  for  a  stranger  what  Mr.  Ravenel  tried  to  do 
for  me.  And  sometimes  he'd  write  drolly,  you 
know  his  way,  that  he'd  seen  ye  somewhere, 
riding,  mayhap,  or  in  the  garden,  or  had  heard 
a  note  of  your  music  as  he  rode  by;  and  the  home 
feeling  would  come  back  to  me,  and  I'd  take 
heart  again." 


XI 

KATRINE    IS    LEFT  ALONE 

IN  the  ten  days  before  her  father's  death  noth 
ing  seemed  spared  Katrine.  The  hopeless 
life  of  the  man  was  recounted  to  her  hour  by  hour, 
interspersed  with  the  rereadings  of  Frank's  letters, 
and,  most  of  all,  with  remorse  at  the  desolate 
place  he  had  prepared  for  her  when  he  had  gone. 

"But  ye'll  have  a  friend  in  Mr.  Ravenel,"  he 
told  her,  earnestly.  "One  who  will  help  you, 
Katrine,  and  ye  need  have  no  fear  to  take  his 
help.  He  is  one  who  has  a  high  thought  for 
women  and  would  never  betray  a  trust.  It's  a 
great  comfort  to  me  to  know  ye've  him,  Katrine." 

On  the  day  before  the  end  his  grief  was  bitter 
to  hear. 

"My  little  wee  lassie,"  he  sobbed,  "I'm  leaving 
ye  alone  with  nothing;  none  to  shield  you,  none 
to  care,  but  just  one  friend.  I'm  going  out,  and 
it's  good  I'm  going.  I  would  always  have  held 
you  back,  always  have  been  a  drag  to  your  name 

"3 


KATRINE 


—for  ye'll  make  a  name!  It's  in  you,  as  it  was 
in  her."  He  stopped  speaking,  but  after  a  little 
space  began,  with  a  crooning,  the  glorious  "Ah, 
Patria  Mia,"  and  it  seemed  to  Katrine  as  though 
her  heart  would  stop  beating  in  her  sorrow,  for 
she  knew  it  was  her  unknown  mother  of  whom 
he  thought. 

"Ah,"  he  whispered,  at  length,  wiping  his 
brow,  "the  music's  gone  from  me.  In  the  whole 
matter  with  your  mother,  Katrine,  I  was  at  fault. 
I  was  jealous  of  her  gift,  of  the  love  she  had  for 
it,  and  made  her  life  miserable  by  my  demand- 
ings."  He  placed  his  hand  tenderly  on  her  head 
as  he  spoke.  "Katrine,"  he  said,  solemnly, 
"with  those  we  love  it's  never  enough  to  forgive 
and  forget.  One  must  forgive  and  try  to  un 
derstand.  To  forget  and  forgive.  Ah,  Katrine, 
time  helps  us  there!  It  does  almost  all  of  the 
work,  so  it's  little  credit  we  need  take  either  for 
the  forgiving  or  forgetting.  But  to  try  to  under 
stand!  When  those  we  love  have  hurt  us  or 
injured  us,  to  study  why  it  was  done:  what  in 
herited  weakness  in  them,  what  fault  of  their 
environment  brought  it  about,  to  study  to  under 
stand,  that's  the  real  Christianity." 

In  the  starry  watches  of  the  night,  wide-eyed 
and  grief-shaken,  Katrine  took  the  lesson  to 

114 


KATRINE    IS    LEFT    ALONE 

heart  both  for  father  and  lover;  learned  it  with 
heart  and  head  as  well;  saw  the  disarming  of 
criticism,  the  tolerance,  the  selflessness  which  it 
would  bring,  and  knew  that  it  was  good. 

But,  she  demanded  of  herself,  was  she  large- 
souled  enough  to  acquire  such  tolerance  toward 
Francis  Ravenel  ?  Leaning  on  the  window- 
ledge,  looking  into  the  clouded  darkness  of  the 
night,  awaiting  the  hour  to  give  her  father  the 
potion  that  for  a  time  relieved  his  pain,  she  went 
over  tenderly,  bit  by  bit,  the  summer  that  had 
passed,  that  flower-scented,  love-illumined  sum 
mer  for  which  she  felt  she  was  to  pay  with  the 
happiness  of  a  lifetime. 

She  lived  again  her  first  meeting  with  Frank 
under  the  beeches;  the  recklessness  of  her  own 
mood  because  of  her  father's  drinking;  Frank's 
lonesomeness  at  his  home-coming;  the  touching 
of  hands  on  the  old  log;  the  sympathy  between 
them  from  the  first,  and  at  the  end  asked  herself, 
honestly,  who  was  most  to  blame.  She  had  done 
wrong  to  permit  him  to  kiss  her  the  night  under 
the  pine-tree,  but  she  would  not  have  foregone 
the  memory  of  it  for  all  the  wrorld  had  to  offer. 

On  the  last  day  about  noon  the  pain  left  her 
father,  and  toward  evening  he  asked  to  be  helped 
to  his  old  place  by  the  window,  that  he  might  see 

"5 


KATRINE 

the  sun  go  down  behind  the  mountains.  "There's 
a  letter  of  Mr.  Ravenel's  I'd  like  you  to  see, 
Katrine,"  he  said,  motioning  her  to  bring  him 
the  carefully  treasured  bundle  of  Frank's  writings. 

After  assisting  him  to  find  the  desired  letter, 
she  sat  at  his  feet  with  a  white  face  and  fixed 
eyes  as  he  read: 

"I  met  Katrine  to -day  on  the  river -bank. 
She  was  well  and  beautiful  and  happy.  It  makes 
me  want  to  be  a  better  man  every  time  I  see  her. 
I  want  to  help  to  make  her  life  happy —  The 
hand  which  held  the  letter  suddenly  dropped 
lifeless. 

"Father!"  she  cried.  And  again:  "Oh,  father, 
can  you  leave  me  like  this  ?"  And  as  the  truth 
came  to  her  that  she  was  alone,  Nature  was 
merciful,  and  she  fell  unconscious  by  her  father's 
body,  with  Frank's  letters  lying  scattered  around 
her  on  the  floor. 

After  her  father's  burial  there  followed  the 
collapse  which  comes  so  frequently  to  those 
women  who  have  the  power  to  bear  great  trials 
in  silence. 

In  the  small,  white  bed,  with  vines  reddening 
around  the  window  and  shining  into  the  room, 
Katrine  lay,  day  after  day,  with  the  pallor  of 
death  on  her  face  and  a  horrible  nausea  of  life, 

116 


KATRINE    IS    LEFT    ALONE 

but  with  a  merciful  benumbing  of  the  power  to 
suffer  further.  For  more  than  a  fortnight  she  lay, 
worn  out  with  the  task  of  living,  with  a  Heaven 
sent  indifference  to  trouble  past  or  to  come. 

But  with  the  return  of  strength  the  problem 
of  daily  living  was  to  be  solved.  The  little  stock 
of  money  which  she  and  Nora  had  between  them 
was  used  for  the  last  sad  needs  of  her  father,  and 
with  Dermott  McDermott  away  she  knew  no  one 
to  whom  she  could  turn. 

"Don't  you  be  minding  troubles  like  these, 
though,  Miss  Katrine,"  Nora  sympathized. 
"Niver  ye  mind  a  bit!  Ye're  wanting  to  go 
away,  and  we'll  find  the  money  to  go.  We've 
some  bits  of  trinkets,  an  old  watch  or  two,  and 
I'm  a  good  hand  at  a  bargain.  And  we'll  not 
want  to  carry  the  furniture  on  our  backs  like 
turtles,  either.  I  know  a  woman  in  Marlton 
whose  heart's  been  set  on  the  old  sideboard  for 
months  back.  We'll  go  slow,  Miss  Katrine,  but 
with  your  voice  we've  no  great  cause  for  worry, 
my  lamb.  Look  at  the  thing  with  sense,  and 
trust  to  Nora;  she'll  manage  it  all.  And  in  a 
few  weeks  we'll  be  off  to  New  York,  that  wicked 
old  place  that  I'm  far  from  denyin'  I  like  fine." 

On  the  day  before  this  departure  there  fell  an 
event,  small  in  itself,  yet  so  momentous  in  its  out- 

117 


KATRINE 

come  that  in  the  story  of  Katrine  it  cannot  remain 
untold. 

Sad  and  wide-eyed,  she  was  sitting  in  her  black 
frock,  huddled  close  to  the  big  pine-tree  at  the 
foot  of  the  garden,  when  Barney  O'Grady,  the 
son  of  Nora,  came  out  of  the  beech  woods.  He 
had  been  crying,  and  at  sight  of  Katrine  he  threw 
himself  on  the  grass,  breaking  into  a  passion  of 
tears,  and  clutching  at  her  skirt  as  a  child  might 
have  done. 

"Barney!"  Katrine  cried.  "Barney,  dear, 
what's  your  trouble  ?"  and  she  put  a  soft  hand  on 
the  boy's  tousled  red  hair. 

"Mother's  going  to  leave  me  here,"  he  said, 
"and  I  want  to  go.  I  hate  it,  hate  it,  hate  it,  here 
all  alone!  I  want  to  go!  I  want  to  go!"  he 
moaned. 

"  Is  it  the  money  ?"  Katrine  asked. 

"Yes,"  the  boy  answered,  "there's  not  enough 
for  us  all.  And  I'm  to  stay  with  Mr.  McDermott 
till  I  earn  enough  to  come.  And  I  want  to  go 
now." 

"But  if  you  should  get  in  New  York,  what 
would  you  do  ?"  Katrine  demanded. 

"Newspaper  work,"  was  the  answer.  "I've 
the  gift  for  it,"  he  explained,  with  an  assured 
vanity,  between  his  sobs. 

118 


KATRINE    IS    LEFT   ALONE 

She  had  known  such  lonesomeness  and  under 
stood  it,  yet,  with  all  the  willingness  in  the  world 
to  help  the  boy,  she  had  not  one  penny  which  she 
might  call  her  own.  Nora  kept  everything,  and 
she  reasoned  if  Nora  had  made  up  her  mind  that 
Barney  was  to  stay  in  North  Carolina  the  chances 
were  heavy  that  there  he  would  remain. 

But  the  boy  continued  to  sob  appealingly,  and 
Katrine,  who  had  that  real  intelligence  which 
no  sooner  sees  a  desired  end  than  it  finds  a  way 
to  accomplish  it,  put  her  sorrow  aside  for  prac 
tical  thinking. 

She  reviewed  her  possessions  rapidly,  remem 
bering,  with  a  throb  of  pain,  some  carved  gold 
beads  she  had  worn  when  "she  found  herself," 
at  the  age  of  three.  They  had  always  seemed 
part  of  her,  and,  though  no  one  had  told  her,  she 
knew  they  had  belonged  to  her  dead  mother, 
"who  went  away."  But  she  felt  little  hesitation 
in  giving  them,  if  some  one  were  to  be  helped  by 
the  sacrifice. 

"Wait,  Barney,"  she  cried,  "here,  where  Nora 
can't  see  you!  I'll  be  back  in  a  moment! 
They're  just  some  old  beads,"  she  said,  apolo 
getically,  with  a  splendid  dissimulation,  as  she 
gave  them  to  the  boy.  "But  old  Mrs.  Quinby, 
at  Marlton,  tried  to  buy  them  of  Nora  once  when 

119 


KATRINE 

they  were  being  mended.  Offer  them  for  sale 
now.  And,  Barney,"  she  went  on,  "if  you  could 
reconcile  it  to  your  conscience  to  keep  it  from 
your  mother  that  I've  given  them  to  you;  if  you 
could  with  no  lying,  and  yet  without  telling  the 
truth—  She  hesitated. 

"Ye  needn't  worry,  Miss  Katrine,"  he  answer 
ed,  drying  his  eyes  on  his  sleeve.  "It's  been 
betwixt  and  between  the  truth  with  her  all  my 
life.  But  if  the  time  ever  comes  when  I  can 
serve  ye—  He  choked.  "Ah!"  he  cried,  "words 
are  poor  things!  But  ye'll  see!"  And  with  this 
he  was  gone  at  a  breakneck  run  down  the  Swamp 
Hollow  toward  the  Marlton  road. 

And  the  strangeness  is  that  Katrine's  hidden 
gift  of  old  beads  to  a  half-grown  Irish  boy,  in 
the  woods  of  North  Carolina,  should  wreck  a 
Metropolitan  "first  night,"  shake  the  money- 
market  of  two  continents,  and  change  the  des 
tinies  of  many  lives. 


XII 

THE    REAL    FRANCIS    RAVENEL 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  day  upon  which  Frank 
said  good-bye  to  Katrine  he  took  the  evening 
train  North.  It  was  his  intention  to  see  Ravenel 
no  more  for  a  long  time,  certainly  not  while  the 
Dulanys  remained.  He  was  afraid  of  himself, 
for  there  came  to  him  at  every  thought  of  the 
affair  a  glow  of  admiration  at  the  words  Katrine 
had  thrown  back  at  him: 

"It  could  never  have  been  like  that.  I  should 
have  died  first." 

He  had  given  her  up,  but  the  fight  was  not 
finished,  and  the  struggle  went  on  constantly. 
In  the  silences  of  the  night  it  was  upon  him  again, 
gripping  him  with  a  pain  around  the  heart. 
The  most  unexpected  happenings  would  bring 
remembrances  of  her.  The  appealing  gaze  of  an 
Irish  newsboy,  or  a  hand -organ  grinding  out 
the  "Ah!  che  la  morte,"  which  brought  back 
the  half-lighted  piano  and  Katrine's  singing  in 

121 


KATRINE 

the  twilight;  the  dreariest,  most  sordid  details  of 
existence  reminded  him,  who  needed  no  remind 
ing,  of  the  time  that  he  himself  had  decreed 
should  be  no  more. 

For  three  days  he  endured  Bar  Harbor  before 
he  fled  to  the  Canadian  woods  with  no  com 
panion  save  a  guide.  He  gave  his  address  to 
none  save  his  mother,  and  for  six  weeks  tramped 
until  his  body  ached  for  rest;  rowed  the  sombre 
lakes  for  exhaustion  and  peace  of  mind,  cursing 
the  fact  that  he  was  a  Ravenel,  and  knowing  full 
well  that  his  conduct  was  both  foolish  and  illogical. 

At  the  first  stop  for  letters  he  found  one  from 
his  mother,  which  disturbed  him  more  than  any 
letter  of  hers  had  ever  done  before.  She  wrote: 

DEAREST  LADDY, — I  am  writing  in  much  haste  and 
some  perturbation  of  mind  for  your  advice.  Last 
night,  at  the  Desmonds',  Nick  van  Rensselaer  came  to 
me  after  dinner  for  a  chat.  I  knew  he  had  something 
upon  his  mind  when  he  wasted  his  time  talking  to  a 
woman. 

And  what  do  you  think  it  was  ?  The  most  astound 
ing,  impossible,  quixotic,  unlanguageable  thing  in  the 
world!  He  wants  to  send  Katrine  Dulany  abroad  to 
study.  He  wants  it  to  be  done  in  my  name,  however, 
so  that  it  will  in  nowise  compromise  her,  and  wishes 
to  have  all  the  credit  of  the  kindness  given  to  me.  He 

122 


THE  REAL  FRANCIS  RAVENEL 


says  he  does  not  want  to  be  known  in  the  matter  at  all; 
that  the  girl  can  regard  the  money  as  a  loan,  and  return 
it  to  him  if  she  becomes  a  great  singer,  of  which  re 
sulting  he  seems  to  have  no  doubt. 

You  see  the  part  I  shall  be  forced  to  take  in  the 
affair.  I  have  asked  him  for  a  few  days  to  consider 
the  proposition,  and  am  writing  you  for  advice. 

When  are  you  coming  ?  Every  one  is  asking  about 
you.  Lovingly  always,  MOTHER. 

Lying  on  his  back  watching  the  crooked  blue 
spots  of  the  sky  through  the  tree-tops  of  a  Cana 
dian  forest,  Francis  read  this  letter  over  and  over, 
and  as  he  did  so  it  seemed  strange  to  him  that 
he  had  not  thought  to  help  Katrine  in  this  way 
himself.  If  she  ever  found  out  that  he  had  done 
so  she  would  probably  never  forgive  him,  but 
there  were  ways,  he  reasoned,  to  arrange  it  so 
that  she  could  never  find  out. 

His  decision  being  made,  he  acted  upon  it 
immediately,  and  that  night  two  letters,  one 
addressed: 

MONSIEUR  PAUL  ROGALLE, 

de  Rogalle,  Dupont  et  Cie, 

Paris,  France, 
and  another: 

M.  JOSEF, 

Faubourg  Saint  Honore, 
123 


KATRINE 

were  mailed  by  him  at  the  neighboring  posting- 
place  of  Pont  du  Coeur. 

The  morning  after  the  writing  of  these  letters 
Frank  started  farther  north,  and  heard  nothing 
of  the  outside  world  for  more  than  a  month. 
At  North  Point  he  found  a  bundle  of  letters,  two 
from  his  mother,  and  another  from  Doctor 
Johnston,  enclosing  the  note  which  Katrine  had 
written  him  after  her  father's  death. 

He  opened  the  doctor's  first,  and  at  sight  of 
the  enclosure  his  heart,  in  the  homely  old  phrase, 
came  to  his  throat. 

It  was  a  sad  letter,  thanking  the  doctor  for  all 
he  had  tried  to  do,  speaking  of  her  father's  suf 
fering  at  some  length,  parsimonious  of  detail  con 
cerning  her  own  life  or  future  plans. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  in  the  hunting-hutch.  The 
night  outside  was  starless,  the  lamps  flickered 
irregularly,  the  guides  lay  heavily  asleep  in  their 
blankets  on  beds  of  pine  boughs  in  the  corner. 
It  was  a  strange  place  for  the  birth  of  a  man's 
soul,  but  as  Frank  Ravenel  read  the  letter  a 
tenderness,  a  selfless  tenderness,  for  the  sad 
little  writer  of  it  came  to  him.  He  had  already 
protected  her  from  himself—  "somewhat  late," 
he  confessed,  with  bitterness,  and  there  had  been 
some  effort  "not  to  do  the  worst."  But  the  feel- 

124 


THE  REAL  FRANCIS  RAVENEL 


ing  that  held  him  as  he  read  was  different  from 
any  he  had  had  before.  He  dwelt  on  her  lone- 
someness  in  the  world :  the  long  nights  she  must 
have  passed  alone  watching  the  coming  of  death. 
Unspeakable  tenderness  brought  a  sob  to  his 
throat  and  a  pain  over  his  heart,  as  though  suf 
fering  from  a  blow.  The  remembrance  of  her  on 
the  wind-blown  hill  came  back  to  him;  the 
scarlet  handkerchief  waved  against  the  blue  of 
the  sky,  and  the  brave  call  over  the  brown  grass: 
"Don't  think  of  me!  Good-bye!"  It  seemed 
in  some  way  to  have  been  a  cry  of  victory. 

He  went  to  the  door  of  the  tent  straining  his 
eyes  into  the  blackness.  Alone  in  the  great 
woods  with  the  night  noises,  under  the  silent 
stars,  things  took  on  a  different  value.  What 
was  he  compared  to  her  ? 

Stripped  of  family  and  wealth,  how  would  each 
measure  before  a  judging  world.  "She  was  so" 
— he  hesitated  in  his  mind  for  a  word— -"she  was 
so  square"  he  said  to  himself.  Wave  after  wave 
of  pity  swept  over  him  as  memory  brought 
back  to  him  her  vividness,  the  fervid  speech,  the 
humor,  the  touch  of  her.  He  closed  his  eyes  for 
a  moment,  she  was  in  his  arms,  there  came  the 
odor  of  her  dusky  hair,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  was  a  man. 

o  125 


KATRINE 

"Gregoire!"  he  called  to  the  sleeping  guide. 
"Oui,   monsieur." 

"The  distance  to  the  nearest  railroad  ?" 
"By  land — it  is  sixty  miles,  m'sieu." 
"By  the  lakes?" 

"It  is  much  shorter,  but  of  an  extreme  dan- 
gerousness." 

"We  will  go  by  the  lakes." 
"When,  m'sieur?" 
"To-night,  Gregoire!" 


XIII 

DERMOTT'S    INTERVIEW    WITH    FRANK    AT   THE 
TREVOY 

IN  three  days  Frank  reached  New  York,  where 
he  found  mail  at  the  club:  from  the  South; 
from  the  Western  mines;  from  women  inviting 
him;  as  well  as  five  or  six  messages  by  wire  or 
mail  from  one  Philip  de  Peyster,  soliciting  an 
immediate  interview.  Even  in  his  perturbed  and 
planless  state  these  repeated  demands  made  an 
impression  on  Frank,  and  in  the  morning  he 
telephoned  that  he  was  at  the  Trevoy  for  the 
day,  and  would  be  pleased  to  see  Mr.  de  Peyster 
at  his  convenience,  suggesting  the  luncheon-hour 
as  a  time  when  both  might  be  free. 

Having  received  no  response  to  his  message, 
at  two  o'clock  he  entered  the  dining-room  of  the 
Trevoy  alone.  After  ordering,  he  sat  looking 
indifferently  from  one  group  to  another,  and 
noted,  with  surprise,  that  Dermott  McDermott, 
with  his  back  toward  him,  was  at  the  next  table 

127 


KATRINE 


lunching  with  a  number  of  men,  who  seemed,  to 
Frank's  quick  eye,  bent  on  conciliation. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  Irishman's  appear 
ance  to  suggest  the  man  of  fashion  whom  Frank 
had  known  in  Carolina.  His  clothes  were  of 
rough  tweed,  he  wore  an  unpicturesque  derby 
hat,  and  he  had  the  unconsciousness  of  self 
which  comes  from  intense  occupation  with  great 
affairs. 

Francis  listened  to  the  jolly  laugh,  the  quick 
evasion,  the  masterful  voice,  leading,  cajoling; 
he  knew  the  men  were  wanting  something  from 
McDermott,  and  realized,  as  they  did  not,  that 
it  was  something  the  Irishman  had  determined 
not  to  give. 

It  was  of  Frank's  own  home  they  were  speak 
ing,  disconnectedly,  and  in  a  strange  jargon:  of 
Loon  Mountain,  Way-Home  River,  road-beds, 
cost  of  production,  capitalization,  bridges. 

As  he  sat  wondering  at  them,  their  concentra 
tion,  their  unity  of  thought,  their  enthusiasm, 
by  one  of  those  throws  of  fate,  which  go  far  toward 
the  making  of  our  lives,  Dermott's  voice  came  to 
him  clear  and  scornful. 

"I  have  heard  much,  I  might  say  overmuch, 
recently,  of  family  and  ancestors,  and  have 
sometimes  wondered  what  those  boasted  an- 

128 


DERMOTT'S    INTERVIEW 

cestors  might  think  were  they  permitted  to  see  the 
ineffective  descendants  who  bear  their  names 
with  neither  achievement  nor  distinction.  Now 
take  my  own  case.  My  family  was  well  and  bit 
terly  known  in  Ireland  as  far  back  as  the  ninth 
century.  And  at  the  end  it  availed  only  enough 
money  to  get  me  through  college  and  over  to 
America.  But  I've  done  some  things,  and  with 
the  conceit  of  the  self-made  man  I'm  fond  of 
mentioning  them.  Directly  or  indirectly,  five 
thousand  people  depend  on  me  for  daily  bread. 
It's  helped  the  world  that  I've  lived.  It's  not 
what  a  man  is  born  to,  I  ask.  Family?  To  hell  with 
family!  The  question  is:  What  have  you  done  ?" 

If  the  words  had  been  spoken  directly  to  him, 
they  could  not  have  stung  Frank  more  than  they 
did.  What  had  he  done  ?  It  was  Katrine's 
question,  and  he  recalled  the  lovable,  vibrant 
little  figure  on  the  lodge  steps  demanding  of 
him  if  he  had  no  desire  to  work,  no  wish  to  take 
part  in  the  great  constructive  affairs  of  men. 

The  group  at  the  next  table  rose  with  an  ap 
proval  of  Dermott's  final  words,  and,  cigars 
lighted,  were  going  their  several  ways,  when  the 
Irishman  turned  and,  apparently  seeing  Frank 
for  the  first  time,  came  toward  him  with  a  smile, 
hand  outstretched. 

129 


KATRINE 

"It's  good  to  see  you  again,  Ravenel!"  he  cried. 
"If  you're  alone  I'll  smoke  at  your  table  for  a 
minute  or  two."  He  waved  a  farewell  to  the 
men  who  awaited  him.  It  was  a  farewell  as  well 
as  a  dismissal.  "You've  heard  the  news  of 
Dulany,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Only  a  few  days  ago.  I  have  been  fishing  in 
the  Canadian  woods.  I  can  scarcely  say  how 
sorry  I  am." 

"Ah,  well!  Ah,  well!  Ye  did  all  ye  could  for 
him,"  said  McDermott,  genially,  "and  it's  prob 
ably  for  the  best.  Everything  is,  you  know,"  he 
added.  "  But  I  thought  you  might  be  interested 
to  hear  something  of  the  little  girl.  She  has  just 
sailed  for  France.  I  saw  her  off.  Transatlan- 
hque — yesterday.  She  has  gone  to  Paris  to 
study  with  Josef." 

Both  men  scrutinized  each  other  steadily  for  a 
short  time,  but  at  the  game  they  were  now  play 
ing  Francis  was  by  far  the  keener. 

"Mother  wrote  me  nearly  six  weeks  ago  about 
somebody's  suggesting  such  a  plan  for  Miss 
Dulany.  Wait  a  minute,"  he  continued,  feeling 
in  his  pockets,  "here's  her  letter  now." 

He  gave  his  mother's  screed  to  McDermott, 
determined  that  the  Irishman  should  not  suspect 
the  part  which  he  had  taken  in  Katrine's  affairs, 

130 


DERMOTT'S    INTERVIEW 

and  was  rewarded  by  seeing  McDermott  return 
the  letter  apparently  convinced. 

"Nick  van  Rensselaer!  So  that's  the  way  of 
it,"  he  remarked.  "Josef  simply  wrote  her  to 
come,  that  everything  had  been  arranged  by 
some  great  lady.  There  were  no  conditions  save 
that  she  should  write  to  her  unknown  benefactor 
once  a  month.  The  money  is  to  be  repaid  when 
Katrine  becomes  a  great  singer. 

"It's  just  as  well — just  as  well!"  Dermott  said, 
after  a  silence,  peering  into  the  cloud  of  smoke  he 
had  blown  ceilingward,  as  though  to  foretell  the 
future.  "Ye  see,  Mr.  Ravenel,  if  she  will  so  far 
honor  me,  I'm  intending  some  day  to  marry 
Katrine  Dulany." 

There  was  again  the  challenge  of  the  eyes, 
but  Frank's  training  stood  him  well  as  he  raised 
his  brows  with  genuine  surprise.  "So  ?"  he  said. 
"I  think  no  one  suspected  in  Carolina." 

"I  hope  not,"  McDermott  returned.  "You 
see,  she's  but  a  child;  eighteen  years!  And  a 
man  protects  that  age  from  mistakes,  as  you,  of 
course,  know." 

The  lids  came  down  over  his  inscrutable  gray- 
blue  eyes  as  McDermott  spoke. 

"And,  besides,  I  have  had  so  little  to  offer  her." 
There  was  real  humility  in  the  tone  now.  "When 


KATRINE 


the  Almighty  gives  special  attention  to  the  mak 
ing  of  such  a  person  as  Katrine  Dulany,  it  be 
hooves  the  rest  of  us  mortals  to  respect  His 
handiwork,  doesn't  it  ?  I've  some  poor  gifts, 
some  money,  a  nine-century-old  name.  There's 
a  title,  too,  been  lying  loose  in  the  family  since 
sixteen  hundred  and  I  forget  what  year.  But 
I  want  her  to  be  sure  of  herself.  As  for  the 
study  with  Josef,  it  will  be  good  for  her,  but  the 
idea  of  Katrine  on  the  stage  is  an  absurdity. 
I've  a  cousin  in  Paris — the  Countess  de  Nemours, 
a  very  great  lady,  though  I  say  it  as  shouldn't," 
he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "whom  I  am  hoping  to 
interest  in  the  little  girl.  She's  no  longer  young. 
By-the-way,  perhaps  you've  met  her!  Her  min 
iature  hangs  in  the  hall  of  Ravenel  House." 

"In  the  hall  at  Ravenel  ?"  Francis  repeated, in 
genuine  surprise. 

Dermott  nodded.  "Under  the  sconces  on  the 
left  of  the  mantelshelf." 

"Ah!"  Frank  cried.  "I  remember,  a  beautiful 
girl  in  green.  It  was  found  among  my  father's 
papers  only  last  year.  It  was  a  relic  of  his  life 
abroad." 

"Yes,"  Dermott  answered,  with  a  curious 
smile,  "that's  just  what  it  was.  A  relic  of  his 
life  abroad.  Well,  good-bye  and  good  luck  to 

132 


DERMOTT'S    INTERVIEW 

you,"  he  said,  rising,  and  Francis  noted  anew  the 
grace  of  movement,  the  distinctive  pallor,  the 
humor  of  the  great  gray  eyes  as  McDermott 
turned  suddenly  to  come  back  to  him.  "For 
give  me,  Ravenel,"  he  said,  taking  his  hat  and 
stick  from  a  self-abasing  waiter,  "for  dragging 
you  into  my  private  affairs  in  the  way  I  have 
done,  but  somehow  I  thought  it  might  interest 
you  to  know  of  my  love  for  Katrine,"  and,  hum 
ming  an  old  song,  he  went  his  devious  Celtic 
way. 

"Three  seventeen!  Three  seventeen!  Mr. 
Ravenel!  Three  seventeen!"  Dreaming  over 
McDermott's  story,  Frank  realized  that  a  call- 
boy  was  charging  around  the  dining-room 
screaming  his  name  and  room  number.  "Mr. 
Philip  de  Peyster." 

"Hello,  old  man!"  Frank  cried,  with  genuine 
pleasure,  as  Mr.  de  Peyster  came  forward.  "I 
found  so  many  messages  from  you,  I  fear  the 
worst.  You're  wanting  me  to  stand  up  with  you, 
I  take  it." 

De  Peyster  shook  his  head.  "Nothing  so 
bad  as  that.  I  have  rather  overwhelmed  you 
with  messages  and  things,  haven't  I  ?  It's  only 
business,  however,  not  matrimony.  I'm  sorry, 
Frank,"  he  added,  laughing,  "to  let  you  in  for  a 

133 


KATRINE 


business  talk  this  way.  I  know  how  you  hate  it. 
Therefore,  I  hurry.  Ravenel  Plantation  lies  be 
tween  two  large  railroads.  To  get  from  one  to 
another  it  is  necessary  to  make  triangles.  There 
were  a  half-dozen  of  us  here  last  spring  who  con 
ceived  the  idea  of  building  a  direct  road  along 
the  south  bank  of  the  Silver  Fork,  joining  the 
two  roads,  like  the  middle  line  of  the  letter  H. 
We  believed  that  the  growth  in  that  region  of 
cotton  mills,  tanneries,  and  wood  manufacture 
warranted  it.  You  know  Dermott  McDermott  ?" 
he  asked,  abruptly. 

"Know  him!"  Frank  answered.  "The  Al 
mighty  alone  does  that,  I  fancy.  I  am  acquaint 
ed  with  him." 

"Whether  he  got  word  of  the  scheme,  or 
whether  by  pure  accident  he  went  South  about 
the  time  the  plans  were  maturing,  no  one  knows; 
but  he  bought  a  mica-mine,  started  a  tannery, 
and  secured,  on  the  south  side  of  the  Silver  Fork, 
a  tract  of  land  which  lies  almost  in  the  centre  of 
our  proposed  line.  It's  but  ten  or  fifteen  acres, 
but  it  goes  from  the  river's  edge  to  Owl  Moun 
tain,  and  we  are  forced  to  buy  from  him,  at  his 
own  price,  tunnel  the  mountain  or  go  around  it, 
a  distance  of  twenty-two  miles,  with  two  streams 
to  bridge.  A  cheerful  prospect!  He  is  holding 


DERMOTT'S    INTERVIEW 

the  piece  of  land  for  which  he  paid  ten  or  twelve 
hundred  dollars,  probably,  at  forty-five  thousand! 
About  a  week  ago  I  discovered,  through  O'Grady, 
that  the  title  was  in  your  name  until  quite  re 
cently." 

"It  was,"  Francis  answered,  with  a  queer 
smile,  "it  was;  but, with  unusual  business  fore 
sight,  I  sold  it  to  Mr.  McDermott  myself  for 
eleven  hundred  dollars.  He  said  he  was  going  to 
raise  eagles  on  it,"  he  explained,  with  a  laugh. 

The  flowers,  the  lights,  and  the  music  of  the 
night  he  had  dined  at  the  lodge  came  back  to  him. 
He  recalled  a  touch  on  his  arm,  an  upturned  face 
with  wistful  gray  eyes,  and  remembered  Katrine's 
warning.  As  he  did  so  a  great  anger  came  to 
him  at  the  way  he  had  been  used,  and  his  newly 
awakened  manhood  called  to  him  for  action. 
There  should  be  another  side  to  the  matter,  he 
determined.  McDermott's  overheard  misprise- 
ment  of  the  South!  His  statement  of  his  inten 
tions  toward  Katrine!  The  cut  of  the  words, 
"She  is  but  eighteen,  and  one  protects  that  age," 
came  back  to  him.  There  had  never  come  a 
time  in  his  life  before  when  he  would  have  been 
in  the  mood  to  do  the  thing  he  now  offered. 

"Phil,"  he  said,  "there  is  another  bank  to  the 
Silver  Fork  River." 

135 


KATRINE 

"  But  it  is  in  your  own  plantation,  and  we  knew 
the  hopelessness  of  any  proposition  to  you, 
Southerner  that  you  are!" 

"It  would  be  at  least  nine  miles  from  Ravenel 
House,"  Frank  answered,  determinedly.  "I  find 
I  have  changed  a  great  deal  in  my  views  of  things 
lately,"  and  here  he  leaned  forward  on  the  table 
toward  his  friend.  "De  Peyster,"  he  said,  "let 
us  build  the  railroad  together!" 


XIV 

DERMOTT    DISCOVERS    A    NEW    SIDE    TO    FRANK'S 
CHARACTER 

THE  next  morning  news  came  to  McDermott 
that  his  land  on  the  Silver  Fork  was  no 
longer  desired  by  the  newly  formed  company. 
It  was  nearly  a  fortnight,  however,  before  he 
learned  the  railroad  was  to  be  built  on  the  Ravenel 
side  of  the  river. 

The  information  came  with  abruptness  from 
John  Marix,  a  gaminlike  broker,  who  encoun 
tered  McDermott  in  the  elevator  to  their  mutual 
offices. 

"Say,  McDermott,"  he  cried,  with  a  cheerful 
laugh,  "Ravenel  didn't  do  a  thing  to  you,  did  he  ? 
He  didnt  do  a  thing  to  you!"  he  repeated,  with  a 
lively  chuckle. 

McDermott's  eyes  were  bland  on  the  instant. 
He  did  not  understand  the  little  man's  meaning. 
What  he  did  understand,  always  understood, 
however,  was  that  he  must  never  be  taken  off 
guard  in  the  game  of  life. 

137 


KATRINE 

"I  am  the  football  of  the  Street,"  he  said,  with 
a  kind  of  cheerful  despondency.  "Everybody 
does  me!" 

"Yes  they  do!"  the  other  responded,  derisive 
ly.  "It's  because  you've  done  everybody  that 
we're  glad  somebody's  got  even  for  a  minute! 
But" — dropping  the  bantering  tone — "this  Ra- 
venel  is  something  of  a  wonder.  I  was  at  the 
meeting  of  the  new  company  to-day.  He's  full 
of  the  scheme,  knows  every  foot  of  the  land,  and 
is  willing  to  put  a  whole  bunch  of  money  into  it. 
We've  elected  him  president  of  the  concern." 

By  the  same  afternoon  the  facts  of  the  case 
were  in  McDermott's  possession,  and  the  follow 
ing  morning,  upon  seeing  Frank  about  to  enter 
the  De  Peyster  offices,  he  advanced  toward  him, 
hand  outstretched.  He  was  entirely  unprepared 
for  the  manner  in  which  he  was  received.  Frank 
nodded  to  him  slightingly,  with  the  scant  courtesy 
he  might  have  accorded  a  domestic  whom  he 
disliked,  and  said,  with  directness,  looking  him 
squarely  in  the  eyes,  "  I  don't  care  to  shake  hands 
with  you,  McDermott." 

Dermott  regarded  him  steadily  in  return,  the 
gray  gleam  in  his  eyes  a  bit  brighter,  the  lines  of 
his  mouth  harder.  Whatever  the  grave  faults 
of  these  two  men  may  have  been,  there  was  not 

'38 


A    NEW    SIDE 


a  whit  of  cowardice  between  them  as  they  stood 
facing  each  other. 

"So!"  said  Dermott.  "So!"  And  yet  a  third 
time  he  repeated  "so!" — his  tone  one  of  grave 
consideration.  "Had  another  done  what  ye  have 
just  done,  Mr.  Ravenel,"  he  said,  at  length,  "this 
little  episode  might  not  have  ended  so  gayly. 
But  for  you  I  have  so  slight  a  respect  that 
there's  nothing  you  could  do  to  me  that  would 
make  me  call  ye  to  account  for  it."  And,  raising 
his  hat  high  and  jauntily,  he  said,  with  a  laugh: 
"Good-morning,  Ravenel!" 

Frank  turned  white  at  the  words,  but  the  Irish 
man  had  disappeared  in  an  elevator,  and  any  im 
mediate  action  seemed  impossible  and  theatric. 
In  the  short  time  he  had  spent  in  New  York  he 
had  learned  many  things,  and  the  narrow,  tiled 
halls  of  an  office  building  twenty-three  stories 
high,  in  Wall  Street,  did  not  seem  the  fitting  back 
ground  for  a  personal  encounter  to  which  the 
hills  of  North  Carolina  might  have  lent  them 
selves  with  picturesqueness. 

He  sat  thinking  the  matter  over  in  the  club 
that  night  with  two  things  fixed  in  his  mind. 
First,  that  he  would  go  to  see  Katrine  in  Paris 
immediately;  of  the  outcome  of  such  a  meeting 
he  took  no  thought  whatever.  Second,  that  he 

139 


KATRINE 


would  put  this  railroad  scheme  through;  already 
the  feeling  of  power,  of  the  consciousness  of  un- 
systematized  ability,  was  stirring  within  him. 

The  affair  with  McDermott  rankled,  however, 
and  it  was  with  drawn  brows  and  tightened  lips 
that  he  answered  a  telephone  call — a  call  which 
changed  both  of  the  plans  which  he  had  so  care 
fully  arranged. 

His  mother's  doctor  at  Bar  Harbor  had  rung 
him  up  to  say  Mrs.  Ravenel  was  seriously  ill 
and  wanted  him  to  come  to  her  at  once.  He 
started  at  midnight,  to  find  his  mother  in  a  high 
fever,  unconscious  of  his  arrival,  and  facing  an 
operation,  as  the  only  chance  to  save  her  life. 

He  had  been  to  her  always,  as  she  herself  put 
it,  "a  perfect  son,"  and  for  the  next  three  months, 
which  made  the  time  well  into  December,  he 
proved  the  words  true,  living  by  her  bedside,  and 
allowing  himself  scant  sleep  from  the  watching 
and  service. 

It  was  when  she  was  far  toward  the  recovery 
of  her  health  and  her  old-time  beauty  that  he 
spoke  to  her  of  his  newly  formed  intentions  with 
characteristic  unwordiness. 

"I  am  going  into  business,  mother,"  he  said, 
"with  Philip  de  Peyster." 

She  was  knitting  at  the  time,  counting  stitches 
140 


A    NEW   SIDE 


on  large  needles,  and  she  went  placidly  on  with 
the  counting  until  the  set  was  finished,  when  she 
looked  up  pleasantly.  "You  think  it  will  amuse 
you  ?"  she  asked,  with  the  kind  interest  which 
she  might  have  shown  concerning  a  polo  game 
in  which  he  was  to  play. 

"I  am  beginning  to  think  a  man  should  have 
some  fixed  duties  in  life,"  Frank  explained. 

"Yes,  certainly,"  Mrs.  Ravenel  answered. 
:<The  Bible  says  something  like  that,  I  believe. 
What  are  you  thinking  of  doing  ?" 

"Buying  and  selling  things,  like  railroads  and 
mines,"  he  answered,  smiling  at  her  indiffer 
ence. 

"I'm  glad  it's  Phil  de  Peyster  you  are  going 
to  buy  and  sell  things  with,"  Mrs.  Ravenel  said. 
"His  mother  was  maid  of  honor  at  my  wedding, 
and  a  charming  girl,  Patty  Beauregarde,  of 
Charleston.  And  I  am  delighted  at  anything 
you  do  to  make  you  happy,  Frank.  I  have 
thought  you  have  not  been  very  gay  of  late. 
There  is,  perhaps,  a  trouble — 

"What  an  idea!"  he  answered. 

"Will  you  have  offices  and  things?"  Mrs. 
Ravenel  inquired,  vaguely.  "I  have  always  had 
ideas  for  office  furnishings,  you  know." 

"If  you  could  see  Phil's  office,  mother,  I  think 
10  141 


KATRINE 

you  would  weep.     It's  very  dirty,  and  he  likes 
it.     It's  the  dust  of  his  great-grandfathers." 

"Well,  dearest,"  Mrs.  Ravenel  said,  "if  it 
amuses  you,  I'm  glad  you  thought  of  doing  it," 
and  she  folded  up  her  work  and  put  it  into  her 
bag.  "Life's  a  rather  dreary  affair  at  best,"  she 
concluded,  "and  anything  that  interests  one  is  a 
positive  boon." 


XV 

JOSEF 

THERE  is  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  not 
far  from  the  Hotel  of  the  Silver  Scissors, 
an  old  house  set  far  back  in  a  court-yard  of  its 
own.  A  gray  stone  wall,  the  height  of  the  first 
two  stories,  protects  both  garden  and  house  from 
the  eyes  of  the  passer-by;  and,  save  for  the  sound 
of  singing,  the  place  seems  uninhabited  most  of 
the  time. 

On  a  misty  morning  in  late  November  Katrine 
clapped  the  knocker  of  this  old  house  with  fear 
in  her  heart,  for  her  future  hung  on  the  word 
of  the  great  teacher  who  lived  here,  Josef,  whose 
genius,  generosity,  and  brutal  frankness  were 
the  talk  of  the  musical  world.  A  Brittany 
peasant  woman  opened  the  door  with  no  saluta 
tion  whatever,  for  the  huge  Brigitte,  in  her  white 
coifje  and  blue  flannel  frock,  spoke  in  awed  whis 
pers  only,  when  the  master  was  at  home. 

"Mademoiselle  Dulany  ?"  she  asked. 
H3 


KATRINE 


Katrine  nodded  an  affirmative. 

"The  master  is  expecting  you,"  Brigitte  said, 
leading  the  way  up  a  wide  oak  staircase  to  the 
second  floor,  which  had  been  made  into  one 
great  room.  It  was  a  bare  place,  with  no  dra 
peries  and  little  furniture.  Two  grand  pianos 
stood  at  one  end  near  a  small  platform,  like  a 
model-stand.  There  were  photographs  of  some 
great  singers  on  the  walls,  and  a  few  chairs  hud 
dled  together. 

In  the  corner  at  a  desk  a  woman  was  writing 
from  the  dictation  of  a  man  who  stood  gazing  out 
of  the  window.  He  turned  at  Katrine's  entrance. 
She  has  seen  his  picture  frequently,  and  knew 
on  the  instant  that  it  was  Josef,  the  greatest 
teacher  in  Europe — in  the  world. 

"You  may  go,  Zelie,"  he  said  to  the  woman. 
"  I  shall  not  need  you  till  to-morrow."  And  the 
dismissal  over,  he  came  forward  toward  Katrine 
as  she  stood  by  the  entrance,  uncertain  what 
to  do. 

He  was  a  man  about  fifty  years  of  age,  below 
the  medium  height,  heavily  built,  and  dressed  in 
black,  with  a  waistcoat  buttoned  to  the  collar 
like  a  priest's.  His  hair  was  iron-gray,  his  eyes 
brown,  and  the  pupils  of  them  widened  and  con 
tracted  when  he  spoke.  He  had  a  clean-shaven 

144 


JOSEF 

face  of  ivory  paleness,  a  sensuous  mouth  and 
chin,  and  when  he  looked  at  Katrine  she  under 
stood  his  power,  for  it  seemed  to  her  as  though 
he  could  see  backward  to  her  past  and  forward 
to  all  of  her  future. 

Being  alone  with  her,  he  motioned  her  to  a 
seat  by  the  window,  near  which  he  remained 
standing. 

"  I  have  been  hearing  that  you  have  a  voice. 
I  have  heard  great  things  concerning  it.  I  hope 
they  are  true."  His  tone  implied  that  he  had 
small  belief  that  they  were.  "  You  have  a  serious 
drawback.  You  are  too  rich."  She  started  at 
this.  'The  management  of  your  income,  how 
ever,  is  given  to  me,  as  I  suppose  you  know. 
Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  remove  your  jacket 
and  hat,  and  walk  up  and  down  the  room  several 
times  ?" 

Katrine  obeyed. 

"Good!"  he  said,  at  the  first  turn;  and  at  the 
last,  "  Very  good!  Sing,"  he  said,  as  abruptly 
as  he  had  issued  his  former  order. 

In  the  after  years  she  was  given  to  making 
light  of  her  choice,  but  the  command  was  scarcely 
spoken  before  she  began,  in  her  lovely,  sonorous 
voice,  the  song  which  it  was  her  heritage  to  sing 
well: 

H5 


KATRINE 


"Tis  the  most  distressful  country  that  ever  I  have 

seen, 

They're  hanging  men  and  women  there  for  wearing 
of  the  green." 

As  she  sang  the  three  great  stanzas, Josef  stood 
motionless,  his  lips  drawn,  his  eyes  half  shut, 
his  face  like  a  wooden  man's;  but  his  hands 
trembled,  and  as  she  ended  her  singing  he  opened 
the  piano  and  seated  himself  in  front  of  it.  "Take 
the  notes  I  strike,"  he  said,  "little — very  little — • 
so — so — so!"  he  sang. 

Up  and  down,  over  and  over,  listening  with 
his  head  turned  to  one  side  like  a  dog,  he  had  her 
sing  the  tones,  saying  only,  "Once  more!"  and 
"yet  again!"  and  "over — over — over!"  At  last, 
with  a  sigh,  he  closed  the  instrument.  "I  am 
not  one  given  to  extravagance  in  language,"  he 
said,  "but  you  have  the  greatest  natural  voice  I 
have  ever  heard.  It  is  almost  placed.  Sit  down 
a  minute,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Two  kinds  of 
pupils  I  have  had  in  my  life:  those  with  voice 
and  no  temperament,  and  those  with  tempera 
ment  and  no  voice.  God  seldom  gives  both;  if 
He  does,  it  is  the  great  artist  that  may  be  made. 
To  be  great  one  must  have  both.  But  even 
with  both  given,  one  must  have  the  ability  to 

146 


JOSEF 

work,  to  work  like  a  galley-slave,  to  work  when 
all  the  world  is  resting,  at  the  dead  of  night,  in 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  When  all  the 
others  have  let  go,  you  must  hold  on,  till  your 
head  is  tired  and  your  body  aches  and  you  faint 
by  the  wayside;  but  you  must  never  let  go,  you 
must  learn  to  endure  to  the  end.  You  will  un 
derstand  me.  It  is  the  mental  part  of  which  I 
speak.  I  do  not  mean  that  you  are  to  wear  your 
voice  or  your  body  out  practising.  It's  some 
thing  far  harder.  You  must  learn  to  surrender 
yourself,  to  lose  your  life  to  have  it!"  He  looked 
at  her  keenly.  She  was  drinking  his  words  in,  as 
it  were,  and  the  expression  on  her  face  assured 
even  him.  "Do  you  want  me,"  he  said,  sudden 
ly  coming  nearer,  "to  tell  you  about  yourself; 
what  I  see  in  you  ?" 

She  bent  her  head,  quivering  from  head  to 
foot,  before  the  power  of  this  man,  who  seemed 
uncanny  in  his  knowledge. 

"You  have  had  some  great  sorrow.  It  is  an 
unhappy  love-affair.  I  understand."  Here  he 
smiled  his  critical,  unfathomable,  remote  smile. 
"You  are  not  yet  eighteen,  and  have  been  capa 
ble  of  a  great  sorrow!  Child,"  he  said,  "thank 
God  for  it!  You  have  a  voice  of  gold.  We  will 
make  of  that  sorrow  diamonds  and  rubies  and 

'47 


KATRINE 


pearls  to  set  in  the  voice,  so  that  the  world  will 
stand  at  gaze  before  you.  When  you  have  real 
insight  you  will  know  that  nothing  was  ever 
taken  from  us  that  more  was  not  put  in  its 
place." 

"Master,"  she  said,  with  something  of  his  own 
abruptness,  "may  I  talk  to  you  a  little,  a  very 
little,  about  myself?" 

Already  Josef  realized  the  charm  of  her  com 
panionship  as  well  as  the  adoring  humility  with 
which  her  eyes  shone  into  his  and  the  unques 
tioning  way  she  placed  herself  under  his  direction. 
He  nodded  his  permission  with  a  smile. 

"I  want  to  be  taught  in  everything.  I  know 
so  little.  It  is  not  book  studies  I  mean.  I  want 
to  learn  to  be  bigger,  to  think  great  thoughts. 
I  want,  most  of  all,  to  develop  the  power  to  be 
happy,  to  make  the  people  around  me  happy. 
Most,  I  want"  -  she  drew  up  her  chest  and 
made  an  outward  gesture  with  her  arms,  a  gest 
ure  significant  of  her  whole  nature  in  its  in 
dication  of  courage  and  generosity—"!  want," 
she  repeated,  "to  grow  soul!" 

Josef  laughed  aloud.  "Ah,"  he  cried,  "you 
funny,  little,  unusual  thing!  I'm  glad  you've 
come  t'L»  me.  We  will  study,  study,  and  grow 
soul  together,  you  and  I.  We  will  not  accumulate 

148 


JOSEF 

facts  to  be  laid  on  shelves,  like  mental  lumber, 
but  grow  bigger  thoughts:  see  ourselves  and  peo 
ple  clearer  that  the  work  may  be  broadened. 
And  we  will  find  our  ideals  changing,  changing, 
getting  bigger,  higher.  And  the  little  people  will 
fall  away  from  us,  like  Punch-and-Judy  shows, 
painlessly,  with  kind  thoughts,  because  we  will 
have  no  further  use  for  them.  Wait!  Trust 
the  master!  Nothing  makes  one  forget  like  a 
great  art!  In  three — four  years,  you  will  meet 
the  man,  and  say:  'Ach,  Heaven!  is  it  for  this 
I  suffered  ?  Stupid  me!  Praise  God  things  are 
as  they  are,  and  that  I  still  have  Josef." 

"I  have  thought  sometimes,"  Katrine  went  on, 
"  that  men  have  many  fine  traits,  which,  without 
becoming  masculine,  women  might  study  to  ac 
quire.  I  remember  once  I  went  to  spend  the 
day  with  a  boy  and  a  girl  whose  mother  punished 
them  both  for  some  slight  misdeameanor.  After 
ward  the  girl  cried  all  the  rest  of  the  morning, 
but  the  boy  went  out  and  made  a  swing,  and  in  a 
little  while  was  quite  happy.  I  was  only  five, 
but  I  saw  then,  and  later,  that  women  bear  their 
sorrows  differently  from  men.  I  don't  want  to 
cry;  I  want  to  make  swings." 

"Very  well.  It  is  very  well,"  said  the  great 
man,  and  there  was  a  mist  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked 

149 


KATRINE 

at  the  valiant  little  creature.  "It's  a  great 
gospel — that!  I  wish  I  could  teach  it  to  every 
woman  on  earth.  Don't  cry!  Make  swings!" 

She  had  resumed  her  hat  and  jacket,  and,  with 
the  lesson-day  slip  in  her  hand,  was  at  the  farther 
door,  when  she  turned  with  sweetest  pleading 
in  her  eyes.  "Illustrious  One!"  she  said,  "I've 
not  told  you  all.  I've  not  asked  you  what  I 
really  want  to  know." 

Already  there  was  between  them  that  quick 
comprehension  of  each  other  which  exists  for 
those  people  who  have  special  gift. 

"Well?"  he  said,  waiting  with  a  smile. 

"You  remember  a  pupil  of  yours  named 
Charlotte  Hopkins  ?" 

"Very  well,  indeed." 

"You  changed  her  greatly." 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  so,"  he  answered,  with  a 
laugh. 

"She  told  me  much  of  you:  of  your  power,  of 
your  ability  to  make  people  over.  And  she  said 
you  had  studied  in  the  East,  and  had  learned 
how  to  make  people  do  your  will,  even  when  they 
were  far  away  from  you.  Is  it  true  ?" 

"Some  say  so,"  he  answered. 

"It  is  not  hypnotism?"  she  questioned. 

'  I'm  no  Svengali,  if  that's  what  you  mean," 
150 


JOSEF 

he  responded,  grimly.  "I'll  watch  you,  Katrine 
Dulany,  and,  if  I  find  you  worthy,  some  day  I 
may  tell  you  more." 

More  moved  by  her  personality  than  he  had 
been  by  any  other  in  the  twenty-five  years  of  his 
teaching,  he  stood  by  the  window  and  watched 
her  cross  the  court-yard  below  and  disappear 
through  the  great  iron  gates. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  he  thought.  "Beauty  and 
gift  and  a  divine  despair.  Everything  ready  to 
make  the  great  artist.  And  then  the  heart  of  a 
woman,  which  is  like  quicksilver,  to  reckon  with. 
I  spoke  bravely  about  her  forgetting,  but  I  have 
doubts.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  it  be  possible  for 
a  person  with  a  fine  and  generous  nature  to  be 
come  a  really  great  artist.  Perhaps  it  is  neces 
sary  to  have  great  egotism  and  selfishness  for  the 
arts'  development.  I  wonder,"  he  said,  aloud; 
repeating,  after  a  minute's  silence,  "  I  wonder — 


XVI 

MRS.    RAVENEL   UNWITTINGLY   BECOMES   AN   ALLY 
OF    KATRINE 

ATTER  his  mother's  recovery  Frank  went 
back  to  New  York  immediately,  keen  to 
arrange  the  railroad  matters  and  get  the  actual 
work  started.  In  the  first  interview  with  De 
Peyster,  however,  he  found  that  Dermott  Mc- 
Dermott  was  far  from  being  out  of  the  reckoning. 

"It  is  rumored,"  said  De  Peyster,  "that  he  is 
trying  to  elect  himself  president  of  N.  C.  &  T. 
road.  If  he  succeeds  he  can  control  the  traffic 
in  Carolina  to  such  an  extent  that  our  line  would 
be  a  failure,  even  if  built." 

"Then,"  returned  Frank,  and  any  one  who 
loved  him  would  have  gloried  at  the  set  of  his 
mouth  and  chin  as  he  spoke,  "he  mustn't  be 
allowed  to  be  president  of  the  N.  C.  &  T.  We 
must  buy  up  the  proxies." 

Before  the  end  of  the  week,  however,  they 
were  surprised  again  by  the  news  that  McDermott 

152 


AN    ALLY 

had  refused  to  consider  the  presidency  of  the 
N.  C.  &  T.  road,  even  if  tendered  him,  and  had 
given  out  that  he  would  sail  for  Europe  within 
a  fortnight  for  an  indefinite  stay. 

"But,"  De  Peyster  ended,  as  he  repeated  the 
news  to  Frank,  "if  you  think  he's  whipped  you 
don't  know  him!  I'm  more  anxious  over  this 
last  move  than  if  he  stayed  right  here  and 
fought  us  openly.  There  is  more  to  it  than  we 
know." 

In  silence  Frank  held  the  same  belief,  though  he 
reasoned  that  McDermott's  European  trip  could 
be  well  explained  by  his  affection  for  Katrine; 
and  so  the  thought  of  Dermott  away  from  New 
York  disturbed  him  far  more  than  it  did  Philip 
de  Peyster,  but  for  very  different  reasons. 

It  was  at  Bar  Harbor  that  he  received  the  first 
letter  from  Katrine,  in  accordance  with  the  com 
pact  that  she  should  write  her  benefactor  once  a 
month.  The  letter  had  been  forwarded  from  his 
Paris  bankers,  enclosed  with  business  letters  in  a 
great  envelope. 

With  a  throbbing  heart  he  opened  it.  She 
had  touched  it;  it  had  been  near  her;  one  of 
those  small,  soft  hands,  with  the  dimples  at  the 
base  of  the  fingers,  had  penned  the  strange,  small 
writing: 

153 


KATRINE 

DEAR  UNKNOWN  ONE, — There  is  little  to  tell.  I  go 
every  day  to  Josef.  He  thinks  it  possible  I  may  become 
a  great  singer. 

I  wonder  about  you,  and  feel  something  like  Pip 
in  "Great  Expectations,"  only  I  know  how  good  and 
great  you  must  be.  Isn't  it  fine  to  be  like  a  fairy 
princess,  who  can  do  anything  for  people  she  chooses  ? 
And  to  have  the  heart  to  help — ah,  that  is  the  best  of  all ! 

In  my  mind,  for  we  Irish  imagine  always,  I  have 
made  you  a  stately  lady,  perhaps  not  very  strong,  who  is 
much  alone  and  has  had  a  great  sorrow,  who  helps  the 
world  because  it  is  good  to  help.  So  every  month  I  will 
send  you  letters  of  what  I  do  and  dream  to  do.  If  you  are 
alone  much,  it  may  amuse  you  to  read  of  my  queer  life 
here  in  Paris.  If  my  letters  bore  you,  you  will  not  have 
to  read  them.  I  want  only  to  show  that  I  appreciate 
your  help  and  your  interest  in  me.  To  know  Josef  is 
the  greatest  thing,  save  one,  that  has  come  to  my  life. 
He  gives  me  little  slips  of  writing  to  pin  up  in  my  room 
to  learn  by  heart.  The  last  one  read: 

"  What  is  it  that  enables  one  to  live  through  the  dead 
calm  which  succeeds  a  passionate  desolation  ?  Good 
work  and  hard  work.  The  way  to  live  well  is  to  work 
well." 

Ever  gratefully  yours, 

KATRINE  DULANY. 

Another  letter  came  in  the  same  mail,  which 
Frank  read  with  a  distaste  for  the  writer  of  it, 


AN    ALLY 

for  the  affair  that  made  such  a  letter  possible. 
It  was  from  another  woman,  but  something  in 
the  fervent  little  soul  beyond  the  seas  called  to 
him,  to  the  best  in  him,  and  he  tore  the  other 
note  to  pieces  and  wrote  a  line  or  two  in  answer 
which  closed  an  affair  before  it  was  well  begun. 
For  two  months  he  had  carried  a  letter  which 
he  had  written  to  Katrine  during  the  first  week 
of  his  mother's  illness.  He  took  it  from  his 
pocket  and  read  it  over  now,  wondering  if  it  were 
wise  to  send  it: 

"I  heard  of  your  great  sorrow  sixty  miles  from  a 
railroad  in  the  Canadian  woods.  I  started  that  night 
to  see  if  I  could  help  you.  To  speak  truth,  Katrine, 
I  don't  know  why  I  started  to  come  to  you,  except 
that  I  could  not  stay  away. 

"In  New  York  I  met  McDermott,  who  told  me  you 
had  sailed  to  study  with  Josef.  This  did  not  change 
my  plans  in  the  least.  But  there  came  the  question 
of  that  land  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  which  detained 
me  for  several  days,  and  then  my  mother's  dangerous 
illness. 

"  I  have  been  with  her  constantly  since — the  crisis  is 
past,  but  she  is  still  too  ill  for  me  to  leave  her.  I  am 
coming  to  you  just  as  soon  as  I  can.  And  I  am  going 
to  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  to  take  me  and  make  what 
ever  you  can  out  of  my  worthless  self.  Whatever  of 

155 


KATRINE 

good  there  is  in  me  has  come  through  you.  You  have 
given  me  belief  in  purity  and  selflessness  and  hope  of 
achievement. 

"  Don't  remember  me  as  I  was;  don't  do  that,  Little 
One;  only  as  I  hope  to  be;  as  I  hope  you  will  help  me 
to  be.  I  am  coming  for  your  answer  the  first  minute 
I  can  get  away. 

"  FRANCIS  RAVENEL." 

There  had  been  many  reasons  for  not  sending 
this  letter:  his  mother's  illness;  his  sudden  plunge 
into  business;  but  underneath  all  was  the  fear, 
which  grew  larger  day  by  day,  that  he  might 
receive  from  Katrine  the  rebuff  which  his  con 
duct  toward  her  so  richly  merited. 

Uncertainly  he  held  the  letter,  reviewing  one 
of  the  curious  turns  that  life  had  taken  in  giving 
Katrine  an  ally  in  his  mother. 

On  one  of  his  week-end  visits  to  Bar  Harbor, 
where  Mrs.  Ravenel  was  still  staying,  her  old 
gayety  had  led  her  one  evening  to  the  teasing 
subject  of  his  marrying.  He  was  standing  by 
the  open  casement,  looking  into  the  twilight  over 
the  sea,  when  he  answered  her,  and  he  could  not 
hide  the  break  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke.  "I  have 
the  misfortune  to  love  the  wrong  woman,  mother!" 

"Frank!"  The  cry  of  alarm  and  tenderness 
and  protest  touched  him  strangely. 

156 


AN   ALLY 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  "and  it's  a  hard  fight." 

She  came  near,  putting  her  hand  tenderly  on 
his  cheek.  "Ah,"  she  said,  "my  boy,  my  boy!" 

He  drew  her  to  him,  and  for  the  minute  he 
seemed,  indeed,  a  boy  again,  coming  to  this  sure 
haven  of  comfort,  to  the  place  where  he  had 
never  been  criticised  or  told  that  he  was  wrong. 
"Yes,  lady  mother,  I'm  hard  hit.  I  fell  in  love 
with  one  whom  I  didn't  think  it  square  to  the 
family  to  marry.  We  have  never  made  mis 
alliances,  in  this  country  or  the  other.  I  be 
lieved,  and  I  believe  still,  that  a  man  owes  it  to 
his  descendants,  to  the  furthest  generation,  to 
marry  for  them.  I  believed,  and  I  believe  still, 
that  marriage  is  far  less  a  matter  of  personal  in 
clination  than  most  people  consider  it  to  be.  I 
believe  that  when  a  man  marries  a  woman  he 
does  not  marry  her  alone,  but  all  of  her  ances 
tors,  and  that  he  may  expect  to  see  the  maternal 
grandfathers  appearing  again  in  his  own  grand 
children." 

"Certainly,  dear,"  Mrs.  Ravenei  acquiesced, 
in  a  tone  which  indicated  there  could  be  but  one 
opinion  on  such  a  subject. 

"You  know  how  firmly  I  have  believed  this 
always,  mother!" 

She  pressed  his  hand  for  reply. 
157 


KATRINE 


"  I  told  her  that  I  could  never  marry  her.  But 
the  thing  was  too  strong  for  me — I  went  away 
from  the  place  where  she  was.  Oh,"  he  cried, 
in  a  heat  of  self-abasing,  "I  grow  cold  when  I 
think  what  a  cad  I  was!  I  hurt  her  so!  But  I 
did,  too  late,  what  I  thought  was  right,  what  I 
had  been  trained  to  do." 

Far  into  the  night,  lying  sleepless,  with  his 
hands  folded  under  his  head,  there  came  a  light 
tap  at  his  door,  and  he  knew  his  mother  had 
come  to  him.  She  wore  a  rose-colored  dressing- 
gown,  and  at  sight  of  it  he  remembered,  with 
tenderness,  how  she  had  always  longed  "to  be 
beautiful  to  him." 

Kneeling  by  the  bed,  she  put  her  gentle  arms 
around  his  neck,  laying  her  soft  cheek  against  his 
own.  And  the  way  everything  in  life  falls  down 
before  mother-love  could  surely  never  be  shown 
better  than  in  her  talk  with  him,  in  which  she 
renounced  almost  every  inherited  belief  to  try  to 
make  life  happier  for  him. 

"Onliest  One!"  she  said.  It  was  her  baby 
name  for  him. 

"Yes,  Miss  Cora,"  he  answered.  They  were 
the  first  words,  learned  from  the  negroes,  that  his 
childhood  lips  had  ever  formed. 

"I  couldn't  sleep.  You  remember  how  I 
158 


AN    ALLY 

never  could  bear  to  see  you  suffer.  I  seem  to  go 
mad,  to  lose  all  self-control  if  you  are  not  happy. 
And  I  came  to  tell  you  that  it  isn't  true,  that  talk 
about  marriage.  I  know  it.  I  knew  it  when  I 
taught  you  all  the  foolishness  about  family  and 
position,  and  helped  you  to  have  the  pride  of 
Lucifer.  Ah,"  she  cried,  "I  suffered  enough  to 
know  it  isn't  true!  There  is  just  one  thing  on 
earth  that  makes  marriage  endurable:  a  great 
and  overmastering  love.  Marriage  is  the  one 
thing  about  which  for  the  good  of  the  race,  for 
the  good  of  the  race,"  she  repeated,  "we  have 
a  right  to  be  divinely  selfish." 

"  Perhaps  it's  true,  mother  mine,  but  the 
knowledge  comes  too  late." 

"No,  it  hasn't,  boy!"  she  answered.  "It 
hasn't.  If  I  were  a  man  and  wanted  a  woman, 
I  wouldn't  let  her  wishes  interfere  in  the  matter. 
I  would  carry  her  off,  if  necessary.  It  was  a 
good,  old-time  way — that!"  she  cried,  earnestly. 

"Mother!  Mother!  Mother!"  Frank  remon 
strated,  with  a  laugh,  though  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"And  you  will  have  her  if  you  want  her;  for 
you  are  so  beautiful  and  dear  and  sweet,  no 
woman  could  help  loving  you." 

And  with  this  biased  assurance  he  fell  asleep,  as 
she  sat  by  his  bedside  with  her  hand  on  his  cheek. 

159 


XVII 

McDERMOTT    VISITS    HIS    FRENCH    COUSIN 

IT  was  true  that  Dermott's  sudden  departure 
for  Europe  had  troubled  Frank.  But  it 
would  have  disturbed  him  more  had  he  known 
the  truth,  for  McDermott  was  not  only  bent  upon 
seeing  Katrine,  but  was  stirring  another  trouble 
for  Frank,  a  trouble  which  McDermott  felt  had 
already  slept  too  long. 

The  week  before  the  Irishman  sailed  (it  was 
the  very  day  upon  which  he  decided,  with  a  laugh 
to  himself,  to  give  up  the  railroad  fight  and  allow 
the  new  company  to  build  the  road  on  the 
Ravenel  land)  he  wrote  his  French  cousin?  the 
Countess  de  Nemours,  thus: 

BEAUTIFUL  LADY  WITHOUT  MERCY, — I  am  writing 
in  a  perturbed  state  of  mind,  for  I  think  I  shall  get  for 
you  a  great  fortune.  You  do  not  answer  my  letters, 
though  I  have  written  at  the  lowest  estimate  ten  thou 
sand  times.  I  want  the  date  of  your  first  marriage  se 
curely  stated  in  written  evidence;  also  the  dates  of  the 

1 60 


HIS   FRENCH    COUSIN 


birth  and  death  of  the  child.  I  want  every  scrap  of 
paper  which  you  have,  concerning  that  sad  affair  of 
thirty  years  ago,  ready  for  me  when  I  arrive  in  Paris 
two  weeks  from  to-day. 

There  is  a  little  girl  over  there  studying  music  in 
whom  I  want  you  to  interest  yourself.  Her  name  is 
Katrine  Dulany.  She  is  with  Josef. 

Yours  of  the  Shamrock, 

DERMOTT  MCDERMOTT. 

The  Countess  de  Nemours'  house  in  Paris 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  street  of  the  Two 
Repentant  Magdalens.  An  iron  door  in  a  grif- 
foned  arch  opened  into  a  sunny  court-yard,  where 
peacocks  strutted  by  an  old  fountain,  and  a  black 
poodle,  who  was  both  a  thief  and  a  miser,  snarled 
at  the  passers-by. 

On  the  right  of  the  entrance,  in  a  kind  of  sentry- 
box,  Quantrelle  the  Red  acted  as  concierge.  He 
was  a  man  above  the  peasant  class,  ridiculous 
ly  long  and  spare,  with  an  unbroken  record  for 
thirty  years  of  drunkenness  and  quarrelling.  His 
narrow  head  was  covered  with  irregular  tufts  of 
scarlet  hair,  and  in  his  forehead  were  heavy 
furrows  which  curved  down  over  the  nose  and 
waved  upward  and  back  to  the  temple.  His 
eyebrows  were  red  tufts  standing  fiercely  out 
over  his  little  red-brown  eyes,  and  his  nose,  long, 

161 


KATRINE 

lean,  and  absurdly  pointed,  seemed  peering  at 
his  great  teeth,  yellowed  by  much  smoking  of 
cigarettes.  He  added  to  his  charms  an  attire 

O 

intentionally  bizarre,  for  he  dressed  himself,  so 
to  speak,  in  character.  And  with  these  natu 
ral  and  achieved  drawbacks  to  his  appearance 
he  had  the  temper  of  a  wasp,  so  that  it  was 
small  wonder  that  questionings  were  rife  as 
to  the  reason  of  his  retention,  his  overpaid 
retention,  in  the  De  Nemours'  household.  He 
had  a  wit  of  his  own,  had  Quantrelle.  Fre 
quently  his  pleasing  fancy  led  him  to  admit 
visitors  when  he  knew  Madame  de  Nemours  to 
be  absent,  and,  after  conducting  them  by  some 
circuitous  route  to  unexpected  rooms,  he  would 
leave  them  waiting  until  discovered  by  any  chance 
domestic  who  happened  by.  And  when  they 
were  ushered  forth  to  the  street  he  would  follow 
them  with  a  torrent  of  shrill  apology,  retiring,  in  a 
paroxysm  of  silent  laughter,  behind  the  shutters 
of  his  little  box.  Why  Madame  de  Nemours  en 
dured  his  vagaries  was  indeed  strange,  for  she 
was  one  who  demanded  of  every  other  domestic 
something  of  an  over-obsequiousness  in  service. 
It  was  a  well-known  fact,  however,  that  he  held 
an  assured  position  in  the  household,  and  that 
the  Countess  only  smiled  at  his  grimaces  and 

162 


HIS    FRENCH    COUSIN 


drinking,  rewarding  him  with  frequent  gifts  and 
holidays  in  the  country. 

On  the  morning  of  Dermott's  coming,  Quan- 
trelle  the  Red  sat  in  his  little  house  peering  out, 
monkeylike,  expectantly,  at  the  passers-by,  and 
craning  his  long  neck  to  keep  a  constant  eye  on 
the  corner  around  which  the  Irishman  was  to 
arrive.  As  the  brougham  drew  up  to  the  curb 
the  Red  One  sprang  to  his  feet,  threw  the  iron 
doors  wide  apart,  and  stood  bowing  double  as 
McDermott  entered. 

"Ah,  my  Quantrelle!"  he  cried,  gayly,  at  sight 
of  the  thin  grotesqueness.  "Still  in  your  old 
place;  still  taking  care  of  madame!" 

"Till  the  end,"  was  the  answer,  with  a  serious 
note  in  the  voice. 

"You  have  not  changed  much  in  the  three 
years  since  I  saw  you  last,"  Dermott  said,  in 
specting  him  closely. 

"Nor  you,  monsieur,"  Quantrelle  answered. 
"In  fact,  you  have  changed  little  since  twelve 
years  ago,  when  I  hid  you  and  young  Monsieur 
de  Chevanne  on  top  of  my  box  here,  after  some 
escapade,  to  keep  you  both  from  the  police." 
He  scrutinized  McDermott  closely  as  he  spoke. 
"And  it's  not  the  money  (which  I  know  well  you 
will  give  me  anyhow)  which  makes  me  say  you 

163 


KATRINE 

are  more  beautiful  than  ever,  monsieur.  The 
same  elegant  pallor;  the  same  pursuit  in  the  eye! 
Had  I  had  your  looks";  he  made  a  clucking  sound 
in  his  cheek  with  his  tongue;  "and  your  clothes! 
Always  the  blacks  and  grays  and  very  elegant! 
They  are  not  my  colors,"  he  drew  himself  to 
his  straightest  to  exhibit  his  maroon  coat  and 
trousers  and  wide  green  cravat  with  an  assumed 
satisfaction;  "but  each  has  his  own  style,"  he 
finished. 

McDermott  laughed.  "You  are  sober,  Quan- 
trelle!" 

"Distressingly  so,  monsieur!" 

"And  if  I  give  you  money  you  would  use  it 
for—  McDermott  paused. 

"Charity,  monsieur,"  the  Red  One  answered, 
his  eyes  drooped  religiously.  He  took  the  gold 
coin  which  Dermott  gave  him,  tossed  it  into  the 
sunshine,  and  slipped  it  into  his  pocket  with  a 
bow.  "You  will  notice,  I  honor  your  integrity 
by  not  biting  it  to  see  if  it  be  counterfeit." 

"  Knowing  your  character,  it  is  indeed  a  com 
pliment,"  McDermott  said.  "Au  revoir,  my 
Quantrelle!" 

"Au  revoir,  Monsieur  1'Irlandais!" 

And  Dermott  passed. 

Inside  he  found  the  Countess  waiting  in  the 
164 


HIS    FRENCH    COUSIN 


drawing-room,  and  she  greeted  him  with  hands 
outstretched,  kissing  him  on  both  cheeks  in  the 
French  fashion.  Afterward  she  stood  regarding 
him  with  a  slow,  sweet  smile,  which  came  from 
one  of  the  kindest  hearts  in  the  world. 

"And  this,"  she  said,  in  a  beautiful,  quiet, 
warm  voice,  "  is  the  Irish  cousin  who  has  not 
been  to  see  me  for  so  very  long!" 

Although  past  fifty,  she  was  tall  and  slight, 
with  the  grace  of  a  girl.  Her  hair,  white  and 
soft  and  wavy,  was  worn  high  in  a  style  quite  her 
own;  her  skin  was  pink  and  white  as  a  child's; 
her  blue  eyes  shone  with  tenderness,  and  they 
had  a  merry,  dancing  light  in  them  continually. 
Her  face  was  of  a  delicate  oval,  with  a  nose 
slender,  beautifully  modelled,  and  exceptionally 
high  between  the  eyes.  She  wore  a  green-white 
dress  of  cloth  individual  in  its  cut  and  very  plain, 
with  an  old  silver  belt  and  brooch  to  match. 
Her  hands,  fragile  and  beautiful  as  shells,  were 
ringless. 

"It  seems  so  perfectly  flat  to  say  that  I  am 
glad  to  see  you,  doesn't  it  ?"  she  asked,  as  Der- 
mott  smiled  down  at  her. 

"I  like  it  just  the  same,"  he  answered. 

"When  did  you  get  in  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  I  came  over  from  Havre  yesterday.     I  was 
165 


KATRINE 

busy  with  some  English  folk  about  a  mine, 
or  I  would  have  tried  to  see  you  last  even- 
ing." 

"And  you  will  stay — "     She  paused. 

"Ten  days  at  most." 

"Ah!"  she  said.  "That's  horrid!  You  will 
miss  so  many  pleasant  things!  A  Bernhardt 
first  night  for  one." 

"  I'm  a  horny  -  handed  son  of  toil,  beautiful 
cousin,"  he  answered,  "and  I  have  come  on 
business  only." 

There  was  a  pause,  which  Dermott  felt  the 
Countess  was  waiting  for  him  to  break. 

"Patricia,"  he  said,  a  beautiful  consideration 
for  her  in  his  voice,  "I  want  to  spare  you  in 
every  way  I  can  in  reviewing  the  bitter  business 
of  your  early  marriage.  I  have  written  you 
only  what  was  absolutely  necessary  for  you  to 
know.  I  discovered  by  accident  that  your  first 
husband  left  quite  an  estate.  If  you  were  his  wife 
and  had  a  living  child  at  the  time  of  his  death, 
and  if  these  facts  can  be  established,  this  prop 
erty  belongs  to  you.  You  have  not  as  much 
money  as  you  should  have.  I  shall  get  his  es 
tate  for  you — if  I  can." 

"About  the  records?"  she  inquired. 

"  If  you  have  them  ready  I  shall  go  over  to 
166 


HIS    FRENCH    COUSIN 


Tours  to-morrow  to  make  a  search  for  the  sister 
of  the  priest." 

"Dermott,  dear,"  the  Countess  said,  putting 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder  affectionately,  "you 
are  not  going  to  make  trouble  for  any  one,  are 
you  ?" 

"Am  I  not  ?"  he  answered,  with  a  short  laugh. 
"Am  I  not?" 

She  took  a  bundle  of  papers,  which  she  had 
evidently  prepared  for  him,  from  a  desk  which 
stood  between  the  windows,  but  made  no  motion 
to  give  them  to  him. 

"It's  all  so  far  in  the  past,"  she  said,  "no  one 
can  ever  know  what  I  suffered.  But  I  want  no 
one  else  to  suffer  in  order  that  I  may  have  what 
you  term  my  rights." 

"Patricia,"  Dermott  answered,  gravely,  "the 
thing  is  all  a  bit  in  the  air  as  yet.  Your  first 
marriage  will  be  difficult  to  establish.  The 
French  law  requires  such  absolute  proof  that  I 
may  not  be  able  to  obtain  it.  Now,  don't  let  us 
discuss  the  matter  further,  nor  worry  that  kind 
heart  of  yours."  He  patted  her  head  affection 
ately  as  he  spoke. 

In  the  years  past  she  had  known  him  well 
enough  to  remember  his  moods,  and  she  gave 
him  the  papers  in  silence. 

167 


KATRINE 

"About  Mademoiselle  Dulany,"  she  continued. 
"  Since  your  letter,  I  have  made  inquiries  concern 
ing  her.  I  shall  be  glad  to  know  her,  for  her  own 
sake  as  well  as  yours." 

"  I'm  going  to  ask  a  great  favor  of  you  for  her, 
Patricia,"  he  answered.  "You  live  in  this  great 
house  alone.  It  would  be  better  to  have  more 
people  about  you.  I  want  you  to  see  much  of 
her,  for  I  am  hoping  that  some  day  she  may  be 
my  wife." 

He  spoke  the  last  word  tenderly,  a  bit  wistfully. 

"Ah,  Dermott,"  she  cried,  "I  had  no  idea!  I 
shall  be  so  glad  to  do  anything  I  can!  Why 
couldn't  she  come  and  stay  with  me  ?" 

"That  is  like  you,"  he  answered,  gratefully; 
"but  such  things  can  never  be  arranged  happily. 
They  must  grow.  Wait  until  you  meet  her.  I 
am  to  see  her  to-night.  I  will  bring  her  to  you 
to-morrow,  if  I  may." 

"  It  is  arranged,  this  marriage  ?"  she  asked, 
delighted  at  a  bit  of  romance. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  he  answered,  concisely. 

"  But  she  loves  you  ?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  said,  quietly,  "she 
loves  another." 

"And  you  are  hoping —  The  Countess  hesi 
tated. 

168 


HIS    FRENCH    COUSIN 


"Not  hoping,"  Dermott  answered,  "deter 
mined." 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"Nearly  nineteen,  and  Irish." 

"Irish  girls  are  hard  to  change." 

"  But  you  loved  your  second  husband,  did  you 
not  ?"  Dermott  inquired. 

"  I  hope  I  was  a  good  wife,"  the  Countess  an 
swered,  evasively,  adding,  "  But  you  remember 
our  own  Tom  Moore!" 

"'The  wild  freshness  of  morning — '  ?" 

Dermott  stood  looking  into  the  fire,  his  eyes 
drooped,  his  face  saddened. 

"But  there  is  something  else  to  remember  as 
well,"  Madame  de  Nemours  said,  touching  him 
on  the  shoulder  and  looking  up  at  him  admiringly. 
"The  half-gods  go  when  the  gods  arrive.  And 
you  have  everything  in  your  favor.  You  are  so 
great  a  man  and  such  a  charming  fellow,  Der 
mott!" 

On  the  following  day  Katrine  came  alone  to 
see  Madame  de  Nemours,  Dermott  having  con 
cluded  wisely  that  his  presence  would  be  but  a 
drawback  to  any  quick  acquaintance  between  the 
two. 

"I  am  Katrine,"  the  girl  answered,  in  response 
169 


KATRINE 

to  the  Countess'  query.     "Mr.  McDermott  has 
been  so  kind  as  to  send  me  to  you." 

"It  came  about  in  this  way,"  the  Countess 
explained,  drawing  Katrine  to  a  couch  and  still 
keeping  her  hand.  "There  was  a  time  when  I 
knew  Dermott,  my  cousin,  very  well.  That 
was  in  Ireland,  before  he  became  the  great  man 
he  now  is.  Since  that  time  we  have  written  to 
each  other  always,  for  he  has  been  kind  enough 
to  give  me  his  friendship.  He  came  yesterday. 
I  was  sad,  and  told  him  of  my  lonesomeness.  It 
is  best,  is  it  not,  to  be  quite  frank  when  two  people 
are  meeting  as  you  and  I  are  doing  ?  In  spite  of 
all  this,"  and  here  she  made  a  slight  gesture  to 
include  her  luxurious  surroundings,  "  I  am  quite 
a  poor  woman.  And  so  when  I  told  Dermott  that 
I  was  lonesome  in  this  great  house,  with  none  but 
servants,  no  companions,  he  spoke  to  me  of  you. 
He  was  quite  practical.  He  said  that  you  spent 
much  money  as  you  were  living.  He  told  me 
of  your  great  beauty  and  your  greater  voice.  I 
became  very  much  interested  in  you,  and  we  ar 
ranged  for  this  talk.  Now  that  I  have  seen  you, 
I  want  you  to  come  and  live  with  me  very  much, 
very  much."  She  was  so  charming  in  her  kind 
ness,  this  great  lady!  "But  you  may  not  desire 
it.  The  situation  is  awkward  for  me."  She 

170 


HIS    FRENCH    COUSIN 


smiled  here,  and  a  humorous  light  danced  in  her 
eyes,  for  with  all  her  graciousness  she  was  quite 
certain  of  her  charm.  "And  so  we  will  leave 
you  to  think  it  over  and  tell  Mr.  McDermott, 
who  will  in  turn  tell  the  decision  to  me.  That 
will  save  my  vanity  from  being  hurt  openly  in 
case  you  do  not  come." 

Impulsively,  Katrine  clasped  both  the  Count 
ess'  hands  in  hers. 

"  I  want  to  come  very  much,"  she  said.  "  There 
was  never  any  one  with  whom  I  would  rather  be. 
I  know  now  that  you  are  the  lady  of  whom 
Monsieur  Josef  spoke  to  me  once.  'Ach!'  he 
said,  you  know  his  way,  'she  is  the  greatest 
lady  in  the  world!  It  is  not  what  she  does,  but 
what  she  is  so  beautifully." 

As  Katrine  spoke  with  the  earnestness  of  voice 
and  manner  always  her  own,  the  Countess  leaned 
forward  suddenly  with  a  startled  look. 

"Who  is  it  that  you  remind  me  of?"  she  cried, 
drawing  her  black  brows  together.  "If  I  could 
only  think!  Who  is  it  that  you  remind  me  of?" 


XVIII 

KATRINE    MEETS    ANNE    LENNOX 

DURING  McDermott's  ten  days'  stay  in 
Paris,  Katrine  saw  him  constantly.  The 
evening  after  her  first  visit  to  the  Countess  he 
received  with  a  gay  air  of  irresponsibility  the 
news  that  she  was  to  take  up  her  residence  with 
Madame  de  Nemours,  and  though  he  personally 
assisted  in  the  establishing  of  herself  and  Nora 
in  the  queer  old  house,  it  was  with  the  manner  of 
one  in  no  way  responsible  for  what  was  going 
forward. 

Some  sunny  rooms  on  the  third  floor  were  given 
her,  a  great  piano  was  enthroned  in  a  bright 
corner,  gay  flowers  bloomed  against  the  faded 
tapestry,  and  the  Countess  urged  her  to  choose 
from  many  pictures  the  ones  she  desired  for  in 
timate  friends. 

She  knew  that  McDermott  visited  Josef  to 
speak  of  her,  and  that  he  returned  delighted  with 
the  visit;  but  in  all  of  his  attentions  there  seemed 

172 


KATRINE    MEETS    ANNE    LENNOX 

even  to  the  watchful  eyes  of  the  Countess  more 
brotherly  kindness  than  the  solicitude  of  a  lover. 
On  the  night  before  his  return  to  the  States  he 
had  a  long  talk  with  Madame  de  Nemours.  His 
visit  to  Tours  had  resulted  in  nothing,  and  it 
was  with  some  depression  of  spirits  that  he  was 
making  his  farewells. 

But  the  Countess  was  too  much  occupied  with 
her  new  protege  to  be  downcast  over  any  myth 
ical  inheritance  in  America,  and  as  she  stood 
under  the  lamps  in  the  doorway  bidding  him  fare 
well,  she  said,  with  girlish  enthusiasm:  "Don't 
you  think  about  it  any  more.  I  have  enough  to 
live  on  nicely.  And  as  for  that  glorious  Katrine, 
I'll  deave  her  ears  with  your  name!  No  praises. 
Ah,  I'm  too  old  and  wise  for  that!  It  will  be 
this  way.  'It's  a  pity,'  I'll  say,  'that  Dermott  is 
not  better-looking,'  and  she'll  answer,  'Sure  he's 
one  of  the  handsomest  men  in  the  world.'  And 
the  next  day,  'How  unfortunate  he  is  so  nig 
gardly?'  'Niggardly!'  she'll  cry.  'He  gives 
away  everything  he  has.  He's  the  soul  of  gen 
erosity!'  Ah,  trust  me!"  the  Countess  ended. 
"She  shall  persuade  herself  there's  none  other 
like  you.  And  there's  not!"  she  cried,  kissing 
her  hand  to  him  as  he  went  down  the  steps. 

Within  the  week  after  McDermott's  leaving 
173 


KATRINE 

Paris  there  occurred  two  events,  seemingly  remote 
from  Katrine's  existence,  which  later  wrought 
the  greatest  changes  in  her  life. 

The  first  of  these  was  the  alarming  illness  of 
Quantrelle  the  Red.  After  a  day  of  peculiarly  un 
bearable  conduct  on  his  part,  the  other  domestics 
in  the  house  had  revolted,  and  late  in  the  evening 
turned  him  out  to  pass  the  night  in  his  fireless 
sentry-box.  For  ten  days  after  this  occurrence 
he  hovered  between  life  and  death  with  an  in 
flammation  of  the  lungs,  during  which  period  the 
De  Nemours'  household  learned  his  real  power, 
for  the  Countess  flew  into  a  paroxysm  of  rage 
at  his  treatment,  discharged  the  cook  and  one  of 
the  upper  maids,  harangued  the  others,  sent  for 
the  best  doctors  in  Paris,  and  herself  assisted  in 
the  nursing,  taking  little  sleep  or  nourishment  un 
til  the  old  fellow  was  well  on  his  way  to  recovery. 

During  all  of  this  turmoil  Katrine  went  quietly 
back  and  forth  to  her  lessons,  in  no  way  ques 
tioning  the  conduct  of  the  Countess,  for  she 
understood  to  the  full  that  human  hearts  form 
attachments  by  no  rule. 

One  evening  during  Quantrelle's  convalescence, 
when  the  Countess  was  her  sunny  self  again,  she 
offered,  unasked,  an  explanation  of  her  seemingly 
singular  conduct. 

174 


KATRINE    MEETS    ANNE    LENNOX 

"Little  person,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand  on 
Katrine's  shoulder,  "you  mustn't  judge  too  harsh 
ly  my  Irish  temper.  It  was  gratitude  to  Quan- 
trelle  which  made  me  act  as  I  did.  There  were 
two  years  of  my  life  when  I  should  have  died  but 
for  him." 

It  was  an  amazing  statement,  and  Katrine's 
face  showed  her  astonishment. 

"When  I  was  sixteen,"  Madame  de  Nemours 
continued,  "  I  was  sent  to  a  convent  school  at 
Tours.  Quantrelle's  father  was  gate-keeper  there, 
and  let  me  pass  out  the  night  I  went  to  be  married. 
I  was  only  a  child."  The  Countess  covered  her 
face  with  both  hands,  as  though  to  shut  out 
some  horrid  sight.  "He  was  an  American,  a 
Protestant,  and  my  father  cursed  me.  Two 
years  after  the  marriage  my  husband  deserted 
me.  Perhaps,"  she  paused  in  her  story,  "per 
haps  Dermott  has  told  you  this  ?" 

"  He  has  never  spoken  of  it  to  me,"  said  Katrine. 

"After  my  baby  came,"  Madame  de  Nemours 
continued,  "  I  was  alone  with  poverty  and  ill 
health,  and  for  two  years,  two  years  "  she  re 
peated,  impressively,  "Quantrelle,  a  long,  thin- 
legged,  red-haired  boy,  kept  me  alive  with  the 
money  he  could  earn  and  the  scant  assistance 
his  mother  could  lend  him.  It  was  eleven  years 

175 


KATRINE 

later,  four  years  after  my  baby's  death  and  my 
father's  forgiveness,  that  I  married  the  Count. 
Katrine,  darling,  I  gave  him  a  great  affection  and 
entire  devotion,  but  my  heart  died  with  the  first 
love.  To  have  that  first  year  over!  Ah,  there 
was  never  another  like  him!  You  could  never 
know,  Katrine,  how  different  he  was  from  others." 

"  It  was  long  ago  ?"  Katrine  asked. 

"Thirty  years.  Dermott  has  recently  been 
demanding  papers  of  me.  It  seems  there  may 
be  some  property  in  America  belonging  to  my 
first  husband  which  he  can  claim  for  me." 

A  premonition  of  the  truth  came  to  Katrine  at 
the  sound  of  Dermott's  name. 

"And  your  first  husband's  name?"  she  in 
quired.  "Will  it  pain  you  to  tell  it  ?" 

"Not  at  all,"  the  Countess  answered,  with  a 
sad  smile.  "It  was  Francis  Ravenel." 

The  sound  of  the  name  itself  brought  no  shock 
to  Katrine.  She  seemed  to  have  heard  it  before 
it  was  spoken,  but  she  made  no  sign. 

She  knew  it  was  Frank's  father  of  whom  Ma 
dame  de  Nemours  spoke,  and  the  tales  of  him 
in  North  Carolina  had  more  than  prepared  her 
for  wild  doings  in  his  student  days.  It  seemed 
strange,  however,  that  Frank  had  never  spoken 
of  an  early  marriage  of  his  father.  But  the  more 

176 


KATRINE    MEETS    ANNE    LENNOX 


she  thought  of  it,  the  firmer  became  her  belief 
that  he  had  never  known  it. 

It  was  not  until  the  gray  of  the  following  morn 
ing  that  she  comprehended  to  the  full  the  weighty 
significance  of  Madame  de  Nemours'  early  mar 
riage,  and  saw  clearly  the  significance  of  Dermott's 
stay  in  Carolina,  with  the  direful  resulting  that 
might  come  to  Frank  from  the  Irishman's  in 
vestigations  there. 

"If  Frank's  father  married  in  America,  with 
a  wife  and  child  living  in  France —  But  here 
Katrine  stopped  in  her  thinking,  putting  the  idea 
from  her  mind  as  one  too  horrid  to  entertain. 

The  second  apparently  disconnected  event 
which  led  by  a  circuitous  route  to  the  death  of 
Madame  de  Nemours,  as  well  as  to  the  discovery 
of  that  missing  witness  for  whom  McDermott 
long  had  searched,  was  announced  quietly  by 
the  Countess  herself  one  morning  of  the  following 
May. 

Looking  up  from  the  Paris  Herald,  she  said 
to  Katrine,  "I  see  that  Anne  Lennox  has  leased 
the  old  Latour  Place  in  the  Boulevard  Hauss- 
mann  for  an  indefinite  period." 

The  three  months  following  the  coming  of  Mrs. 
Lennox  made  no  change  in  their  lives  whatever. 
Katrine  was  aware  that  Madame  de  Nemours  and 

177 


KATRINE 

Anne  exchanged  visits  of  courtesy,  each  miss 
ing  the  other,  but  early  in  July  she  went  with 
the  Countess  and  Josef  to  Brittany  and  spent  the 
summer  in  work,  the  world  forgetting  and  by  the 
world  forgot. 

And  the  divine  days  with  Josef  by  the  sea! 
His  wisdom,  his  temper,  his  splendid  intolerance, 
his  prophetic  imaginings,  as  he  stormed  at  the 
imbecility  of  his  kind! 

"  It's  this  damned  idea  of  realism  that's  kill 
ing  art!"  he  shrieked  one  day,  on  the  rocks  at 
Concarneau.  "Who  wants  things  natural?  If 
Jones  and  Smith  could  be  taught  by  reiterating 
life  as  it  is,  the  race  of  fools  would  soon  become 
extinct.  My  neighbor  loves  his  neighbor's  wife, 
and  they  go  off  together  and  there  is  murder 
done.  Does  the  reading  of  this  in  book  or  paper 
stop  my  going  off  with  the  woman  I  love  if  I 
have  the  chance?  Not  a  whit!  Art  must  raise 
one's  ideals.  It's  the  only  thing  that  helps  you, 
me,  any  one!" 

Or,  again,  and  this  was  at  twilight,  waiting 
under  the  old  crucifix  for  the  herring-boats  to 
come  in:  "Anybody  with  eyesight  can  imitate  the 
actual.  The  real!  What  has  the  creative  mind 
to  do  with  that  ?  It  is  not  one  great  and  innocent- 
minded  girl  you  are  to  represent  in  Marguerite, 

178 


KATRINE    MEETS    ANNE    LENNOX 

it  is  all  girlhood  in  its  innocence  and  surren 
der." 

And  another  time,  on  the  way  home  from  Pont- 
Aven: 

"Women  of  detail,  women  who  indulge  them 
selves  in  soul-wearying  repetition  of  the  little 
affairs  of  life,  have  driven  more  men  to  perdition 
than  all  the  Delilahs  ever  created." 

And  Katrine  and  he  laughed  together  at  his 
anathema,  and  went  forward  into  a  dusky 
French  twilight,  singing  as  they  went. 

Around  her  room  she  pinned  the  written 
slips  which  he  gave  at  every  lesson,  Scripture 
which  seemed  perverted  to  uses  other  than  its 
own: 

"He  that  endureth  to  the  end,  the  same  shall  be 
saved. 

"Live  with  Goethe's  Faust — learn  it.  You  will  un 
derstand  Gounod's  better. 

"All  art  comes  from  the  same  kind  of  nature.  If  you 
didn't  sing  yours,  you  would  paint  it,  carve  it,  write  it, 
play  it  out;  for,  if  it  is  in  you  to  create  something  ar 
tistic,  nothing  human  can  stop  your  doing  it. 

"There  are  no  mute,  inglorious  Miltons.  Everyone 
who  has  the  qualifications  for  success  succeeds." 

As  time  passed    the   letters    to   her  unknown 
179 


KATRINE 


benefactor  became  more  and  more  intimate  in 
tone  by  reason  of  her  race  and  youth.  No  an 
swer  ever  coming  to  any  of  them,  it  was  as  though 
her  thoughts  were  written  and  cast  into  the  eter 
nal  silence. 

Upon  the  second  anniversary  of  her  farewell 
to  Francis  Ravenel,  which  was  soon  after  her 
return  from  Brittany  to  Paris,  she  took  from  the 
depths  of  an  old  trunk  the  mementos  of  that 
time  which  seemed  to  her  so  far  away.  Such 
trifling  things:  a  pine  cross  tied  with  blue  rib 
bon;  a  grass  ring  which  he  had  made  for  her 
once  in  the  barley-field;  a  note  or  two;  a  book 
of  collected  poems,  marked.  Trifling  things, 
indeed!  but  her  heart  throbbed  with  the 
sense  of  his  presence  as  she  held  them  in  her 
hands. 

In  the  next  room  Nora  was  clattering  some  tea 
things,  making  the  plain,  homely  bustle  that 
frequently  keeps  one  sane.  Out-of-doors  it  was 
one  of  Paris'  divine  gray  days,  with  pinks  and 
lavenders  showing  in  the  shadows;  but  neither 
the  in-door  noise  nor  the  outside  beauty  held  her. 
She  was  back  in  the  Carolinas  with  her  first 
love;  there  was  the  odor  of  pine  and  honey 
suckle  in  the  Paris  air,  a  harvest  moon  in  the 
sky. 

1 80 


KATRINE    MEETS    ANNE    LENNOX 

'To  forgive  and  forget  and  understand." 
On  the  impulse  of  the  moment  she  decided  to 
write  her  story  to  the  unknown  with  no  names, 
telling  the  pain  which  haunted  her  always;  the 
pain  which  she  felt  would  be  hers  until  the 
end.  Having  finished  the  narrative,  she  con 
cluded: 

"  I  am  trying  to  make  it  very  clear  to  you.  You  have 
been,  you  are,  so  kind.  But  I  want  you  to  know  about 
me  exactly  as  I  am.  The  world  would  say  that  this 
man  did  not  treat  me  well.  He  had  faults;  he  had 
ignorances;  we  are  none  of  us  perfect;  he  was  not 
a  great  man.  But  he  was  just  as  I  would  have 
him." 

And,  womanlike,  she  added  a  postscript: 

"You  send  me  too  much  money.  Lessons  in  fencing, 
dancing,  languages,  music,  cost  a  great  deal.  I  have 
not  been  spending  it  all,  although  I  have  been  help 
ing  an  art  student,  who  has  almost  starved  himself 
to  death  in  a  room  built  on  a  roof,  painting  by 
candle-light. 

"  P.P.S. — Also  a  girl  who  tried  to  drown  herself  be 
cause  she  cannot  sing,  but  she  writes  beautifully.  I 
will  send  you  one  of  her  poems,  to  show  you  she  is 
worth  helping. 

181 


KATRINE 


very 
poor 
rag 
picker 

with,  I  think,  twelve  children.     He  looks  even  worse 
than  this." 

The  routine  of  her  life  having  been  thoroughly 
established  the  preceding  winter,  she  fell  easily 
again  into  the  old  lines.  Every  day  she  lunched 
with  Madame  de  Nemours.  Sometimes,  when 
engagements  left  them  both  free,  they  dined  to 
gether  in  quite  a  stately  manner  in  the  high,  old 
tapestry  room,  and  once  in  a  fortnight  she  was 
bidden  to  dinner  with  friends  of  this  great  lady 
— Bartand,  the  dramatist;  President  Arnot;  or 
Prince  Cassini,  with  his  terrible  vitality  and 
schemes  for  universal  betterment. 

One  morning  she  was  disturbed  at  her  studies 
by  a  card  from  the  Countess,  saying  that  Mrs. 

182 


KATRINE    MEETS   ANNE    LENNOX 

Lennox  was  below  and  wished  to  see  her.  She 
had  grown  accustomed  to  the  desire  of  strangers 
to  be  presented  to  her,  for,  as  Dermott  had  told 
her,  the  news  of  her  voice  was  already  newspaper 
copy.  In  the  drawing-room  she  found  Madame 
de  Nemours  by  the  window  talking  animatedly, 
in  her  pleasant,  low  voice,  to  a  lady,  young  and 
vivacious,  wearing  aggressive  mourning. 

"And  this,"  the  stranger  cried,  in  a  high, 
strong,  musical  voice,  coming  forward,  "is  the 
Miss  Dulany  of  whom  I  have  been  hearing  such 
wonderful  things  ?"  She  waited  for  no  re 
sponse.  "I  have  just  been  telling  the  Countess 
that  I  almost  met  you  at  Ravenel  House,  in 
Carolina,  over  two  years  ago.  There  was  a 
house-party,  and  you  refused  to  come." 

Katrine  flushed  and  turned  pale  again  sudden 
ly,  as  she  realized  that  this  was  the  Mrs.  Lennox 
whom,  by  current  gossip,  Frank  was  to  marry,  and 
she  lived  over  again  in  an  instant,  it  seemed,  the 
morning  when  she  had  met  them  riding  together 
by  the  ford  at  Ravenel. 

"I  was  ill,  I  remember,"  Katrine  explained, 
recovering  herself;  "  unfortunately  ill,  since  I  was 
prevented  from  meeting  you."  There  was  both 
consideration  and  compliment  in  her  tone. 

"Everything  has  changed  a  great  deal  since 
183 


KATRINE 


then,"  Mrs.  Lennox  went  on,  "with  me  as  well 
as  with  others.  I  lost  my  mother  the  following 
winter,"  she  glanced  at  her  mourning  as  she 
spoke,  "and  Mrs.  Ravenel  has  been  back  to  the 
old  place  but  once,  for  a  few  weeks  only.  Mr. 
Ravenel  (you  remember  Mr.  Ravenel  ?)  has  gone 
in  for  all  sorts  of  things  since  then.  Nobody 
knows  what  came  over  him.  Frank  had  never 
been  one  to  tie  himself  down,  but  he  is  a  regu 
lar  New  York  business  man  now.  He  buys 
mines  and  sells  them,  and  railroads  and  things." 
She  laughed  pleasantly.  "It  lacks  definiteness, 
I  can  see.  And  Nick  van  Rensselaer!  I  have 
just  been  telling  the  Countess  of  him." 

"I  do  not  know  Mr.  van  Rensselaer,"  said 
Katrine. 

"What!"  Mrs.  Lennox  cried,  with  amaze 
ment.  "I  thought  you  met  him  at  Ravenel!  I 
understood  he  heard  you  sing  there,  and  it  was 
because  of  it  that  he  wanted  to  send  you  abroad 
to  study." 

"If  it  be  Mr.  van  Rensselaer  who  has  been  so 
kind  to  me,  I  do  not  know  it,"  Katrine  answered, 
in  no  small  degree  annoyed  by  this  enforced 
intimacy.  "  I  have  never  seen  him  nor  heard  his 
name  before  in  my  life." 

If  Mrs.  Lennox  noted  Katrine's  manner  she 
184 


KATRINE    MEETS    ANNE    LENNOX 

was  in  nowise  deterred  by  it  from  going  deeper 
into  the  subject. 

"Mrs.  Ravenel  told  me,"  she  continued,  with 
excitement  in  her  voice,  "that  Nick  van  Rens- 
selaer  came  to  her  at  Bar  Harbor,  and  asked  the 
use  of  her  name  if  he  furnished  the  means  to 
send  you  abroad  to  study.  He  said  that  he 
was  especially  anxious  to  remain  unknown  in 
the  matter.  Mrs.  Ravenel  told  me  afterward 
that  you  had  declined  the  offer  because  of  having 
inherited  a  fortune  yourself.  But,  of  course,  I 
thought  you  must  have  met  him;  in  fact,  I 
remember  that  Frank  said  he  thought  so,  too. 
By-the-way,"  she  went  on,  rising  to  go,  "he  is 
coming  over  soon;  Mr.  Ravenel,  I  mean."  She 
looked  conscious  for  a  second,  as  though  pre 
ferring  to  keep  something  back,  and  then  finished  : 
"  He  will,  of  course,  call  while  he  is  here  ?" 

"He  may  be  so  kind,"  Katrine  answered, 
suavely. 

"Good-bye,"  Mrs.  Lennox  said,  holding  out  a 
slim,  black-gloved  hand  first  to  the  Countess  and 
then  to  Katrine.  "I  hope  your  studies  will  let 
you  come  to  me  soon.  I  hear  you  are  to  make 
your  debut  in  the  spring." 

Katrine  laughed.  "That  will  be  as  Josef 
says." 

185 


KATRINE 


"Good-bye  again." 

After  Mrs.  Lennox  had  left  the  room,  Katrine 
and  the  Countess  looked  at  each  other  with  ques 
tioning  in  the  eyes  of  each. 

"You  lived  at  a  place  called  Ravenel,"  Ma 
dame  de  Nemours  asked,  "and  never  told  me  ?" 

"  I  did  not  think  the  name  one  you  would  care 
to  hear,"  Katrine  answered. 

"Ah,  you  so  sweet  thing!"  the  Countess  cried, 
impulsively,  putting  her  hand  on  the  girl's  cheek. 
"You  were  right.  There  are  probably  thousands 
of  Ravenels  in  America  unconnected  with  my  un 
fortunate  life." 

But  Katrine,  who  had  had  her  own  surprises 
in  the  interview,  inquired,  "Why  did  Mrs. 
Lennox,  who  is  very  beautiful,  very  wealthy,  and 
of  the  monde,  take  so  much  trouble  to  come  here 
to  tell  me  of  a  Mr.  van  Rensselaer  ?" 

"I  didn't  think  she  came  for  that  alone," 
answered  the  Countess.  "I  thought  she  wanted 
you  to  know  that  Monsieur  Ravenel  was  coming 
over  to  visit  her." 

Naturally,  a  marked  change  in  Katrine's  at 
titude  toward  her  unknown  benefactor  followed 
this  talk  with  Anne  Lennox.  She  had  become 
accustomed  to  think  of  "The  Dear  Unknown" 
as  a  lady,  old  and  beneficent.  The  new  idea  was 

186 


KATRINE    MEETS   ANNE    LENNOX 

startling.  Thinking  it  over,  she  became  con 
vinced  of  the  extreme  unlikelihood  that  two 
people  should  have  become  so  greatly  interested 
in  her  voice  at  exactly  the  same  time,  and  her 
conclusions  led  to  believing  that  Mrs.  Lennox 
had  probably  given  her  a  true  version  of  the 
affair.  But  if  Nicholas  van  Rensselaer  were 
her  patron,  instead  of  some  white-haired  old 
lady  down  in  Leeds  or  Kent  or  Surrey,  as  she 
had  imagined,  her  last  letter  must  inevitably 
have  told  him,  who  had  spent  so  much  time 
in  North  Carolina,  of  her  love  for  Francis 
Ravenel. 

The  obviously  honest  thing  to  do  was  to  write 
to  Mr.  van  Rensselaer  immediately,  to  let  him 
know  that  without  effort  or  curiosity  on  her  part 
his  identity  had  been  revealed  to  her. 

Her  letter  to  him  was  short  to  abruptness. 
She  stated  briefly  the  manner  in  which  the  in 
formation  had  come  to  her  as  well  as  her  regret 
that  his  wish  to  remain  unknown  had  been 
thwarted.  She  hoped  that  her  voice  would 
fulfill  all  the  promise  he  thought  it  gave  two  years 
back;  referred  to  the  personal  nature  of  her  last 
letter;  spoke  of  her  desire  to  repay  in  full  the 
money  part  of  her  obligation  to  him,  realizing 
that  the  kind  thought  could  never  be  repaid  in 

187 


KATRINE 


this  world,  and  signed  herself  his  "grateful  Ka 
trine  Dulany." 

In  a  fortnight  the  answer  came: 

MY  DEAR  Miss  DULANY, — Your  letter  reached  me 
but  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  I  am  feeling,  since  its  arrival, 
like  the  ass  that  wore  the  lion's  skin.  Mrs.  Lennox 
was  entirely  wrong  in  her  statements.  It  is  true  that 
I  proposed  the  arrangement,  which  she  told  you  of, 
to  Mrs.  Ravenel,  but  that  dear  lady  wrote  me  within 
the  week  that  I  was  too  late  in  my  offer,  and  that  an 
other  believer  in  your  gift  had  anticipated  the  pleasure 
I  had  promised  myself  in  helping  to  give  to  the  world 
a  great  voice. 

I  am  extremely  sorry  that  you  are  under  no  obliga 
tions  to  me.  The  confidences  which  you  mention  I 
assure  you  are  entirely  safe  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
for  I  never  received  a  letter  from  you  save  the  one 
which  lies  before  me  as  I  write. 

I  have  heard  that  you  will  sing  at  the  Josef  recital  in 
May.  May  I  count  upon  you  to  write  me  a  line  as  to 
the  exact  time,  so  that  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  hear 
ing  you  ? 

If,  meanwhile,  there  is  any  way  that  I  can  serve  you, 
believe  me  that  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so,  for  I  heard  you 
sing  "Ah!  Fors  e  lui"  one  night,  standing  under  the 
pines  outside  of  your  window,  and  my  debt  is  great. 
Sincerely, 

NICHOLAS  VAN  RENSSELAER. 
188 


KATRINE    MEETS    ANNE    LENNOX 

And  it  was  a  curious  thing  to  note  that  this 
letter,  caused  by  the  chatter  of  Anne  Lennox, 
was  the  direct  cause  of  Katrine's  next  meeting 
with  Frank,  a  meeting  which,  but  for  this  cor 
respondence  which  led  to  an  acquaintance  with 
the  Van  Rensselaers,  might  never  have  taken 
place. 

One  evening,  shortly  after  the  receipt  of  this 
letter,  Madame  de  Nemours  told  Katrine  a  piece 
of  news  for  which  she  was  not  unprepared. 

" By-the-way,"  she  said,  "Mrs.  Lennox  was 
here  to-day.  Mr.  Ravenel  is  expected  in  Paris 
to-morrow.  I  have  asked  a  party  to  dine  with 
them  on  Friday." 

Katrine  had  just  said  good-night  to  the  Count 
ess,  and  was  standing  in  the  doorway,  candle  in 
hand,  with  the  light  shining  full  on  her  face,  as 
Madame  de  Nemours  spoke;  but  she  received  the 
news  with  no  change  of  face,  no  tremor  of  an 
eyelid.  She  felt  it  a  loyalty  to  old  love  that  the 
Countess  should  be  forever  unable  to  recognize 
in  Frank  the  man  whom  they  had  discussed  so 
often,  namelessly;  and  of  whom  Madame  de 
Nemours  had  such  a  slighting  opinion.  The 
strangest  thing  of  all  was  that  she  had  for  this 
man's  coming;  this  man  for  whose  presence  she 
had  longed  day  and  night  for  two  years;  the  re- 
13  189 


KATRINE 

membrance  of  whose  words  could  thrill  her  and 
bring  tears  to  her  eyes  or  a  smile  to  her  lips; 
that  for  this  man's  coming,  she  had  no  thought 
save  regret  that  he  was  to  come,  and  determina 
tion  not  to  meet  him. 

"I  want  to  be  sent  away,  Illustrious  Master," 
she  said,  the  following  afternoon,  to  Josef,  when 
the  lesson  was  over,  and  they  stood  together  look 
ing  at  the  sun  going  down  over  the  gray  mist  of 
the  Paris  roofs.  "I  am  not  well,  and  there  is 
some  one  coming  to  Madame  de  Nemours'  on 
Friday  whom  I  do  not  wish  to  meet." 

Josef  looked  at  her  quickly. 

"Mademoiselle  Silence,"  he  said,  "I,  who  read 
voices  as  others  read  a  printed  page,  understand. 
You  had  better  see  him." 

Katrine  flushed  crimson,  but  changed  suddenly 
to  such  a  whiteness  that  Josef  thought  she  would 
have  fallen. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  tenderly,  putting  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder.  "I  am  the  surgeon  with 
the  knife,  but  my  work  is  almost  done.  Let  me 
tell  you  something.  You  have  worked  as  I  have 
never  seen  any  one  work  before.  I  have  not 
praised  much,  but  I  have  seen.  Ah,  I  know! 
Tones,  little,  big,  staccato,  breath,  breath,  breath! 
Over,  and  yet  again  over.  And  the  thinking  a 

190 


KATRINE    MEETS   ANNE    LENNOX 

tone,  which  is  the  hardest  of  all.  And  the  acting 
— to  conceive  what  a  character's  voice  should 
be;  to  understand  that  the  timbre  of  Carmen's 
voice  would  not  be  that  of  Marguerite's;  that 
the  soul  of  the  voice  must  change  for  each  char 
acter.  To  slave,  to  slave,  to  slave,  and  suffer  as 
you  have  done  into  the  third  year,  is  it  not  ? 
None  other  can  know  the  value  of  it  all  as  I 
know  it,  and  at  the  end  what  has  the  master 
done  for  you  ?  Meet  this  man  and  you  will  find 
out.  It  is  for  my  reward  I  am  asking,  for  I,  too, 
have  done  something." 

Katrine  took  the  hand  of  the  great  teacher 
and  kissed  it  lovingly. 

"Something?"  she  said.  "You  have  done 
all." 

"Not  all;  a  part,  a  very  little  part,"  he  re 
turned.  "  But  meet  the  man,  my  child,  and  you 
will  see  how  much  has  been  done  by  both  of  us. 
On  Saturday  morning  you  will  come  to  me.  You 
will  say,  'Prophetic  man,  I  am  ashamed  through 
all  my  being  to  have  loved  so  slight  a  thing.' 
You  will  find  you  have  outgrown  him,  and  he  will 
have  only  the  weight  of  the  Santa  Claus,  which 
children  painlessly  outgrow.  And  ever  after  you 
will  have  toward  him  a  kindly  mother-feeling,  for 
that  is  woman's  way  toward  their  first  loves." 

191 


KATRINE 


Katrine  shook  her  head.  "I  do  not  want  to 
forget." 

"No,"  said  Josef,  "you  never  have  wanted  to 
forget,  and  that  has  made  it  hard  for  me.  You 
have  a  strange  creed  of  your  own.  But  some 
times,  when  I  know  beyond  words  that  I  have 
received  a  'wireless'  message  from  you  over  the 
roof-tops,  I  begin  to  believe  you  dangerous, 
Katrine  Dulany.  But  your  belief  of  'mind- 
curing'  people  into  being  better  has  the  seed  of 
truth  in  it  which  makes  so  many  new  creeds  dan 
gerous.  You  can  make  yourself  so  great  by  fine 
thinking  that  the  people  who  come  in  contact 
with  you  understand  and  are  uplifted." 

"It  is  a  thing  more  subtle,  Greatness!"  Katrine 
answered. 

"It  is  not  a  thing  more  subtle,  Obstinacy!"  he 
returned,  with  a  laugh.  "However,  have  your 
way!  You  are  ordered  to  Fontainebleau  to 
morrow.  Your  voice  is  in  rags,  shall  I  say  ? 
You  will  stay  for  two  weeks  at  the  house  of 
Madame  Lomard.  You  will  lie  in  the  open  and 
breathe  much.  And  so,  good-bye  to  you!" 


XIX 

A    VISION    OF    THE    PAST 

A^NE  LENNOX'S  residence  in  Paris  was 
more  closely  connected  with  Frank  Ravenel 
than  the  world  knew.  In  a  letter  which  she  had 
received  from  Mrs.  Ravenel,  after  her  illness  at 
Bar  Harbor,  that  comfort-loving  old  lady  had 
written  that  she  would  like  to  go  abroad  for  the 
winter  if  there  could  be  found  some  homelike 
place  to  stay. 

Mrs.  Lennox  had  grown  tired  of  New  York, 
and  she  quickly  devised  a  plan  to  take  some  of  her 
servants  with  her,  find  a  suitable  establishment 
in  Paris,  and  ask  Mrs.  Ravenel  to  make  her  a 
prolonged  visit.  That  Francis  would  probably 
accompany  his  mother  to  Europe  and  visit  her 
as  frequently  as  business  made  it  possible  was 
not  overlooked  in  Anne  Lennox's  calculations. 

But  Mrs.  Ravenel,  who  was  too  fearful  of  her 
comfort  to  trust  written  descriptions,  asked  her 
son  "to  step  over  to  Paris,"  as  she  jauntily  put 

193 


KATRINE 

it,  and  see  Anne's  home  before  she  committed 
herself. 

"She  writes  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ravenel,  eying 
the  invitation  suspiciously,  "that  she  has  taken 
a  house  like  a  palace.  I  lived  in  a  palace  once 
in  Venice.  The  walls  were  of  marble,  with 
moisture  on  them  constantly,  and  there  was  but 
four  feet  of  rug  on  a  tiled  floor  forty  feet  square. 
When  I  asked  for  fire  they  brought  me  a  china 
basket  with  three  or  four  semi-hot  coals  in  it, 
and  placed  it  in  the  exact  centre  of  the  room 
where  one  was  liable  to  trip  over  it.  The  ex 
perience  cured  me  of  'dreaming  to  dwell  in  mar 
ble  halls.'  I  want  heat,  electricity,  and  a  large 
bath  of  my  own." 

According  to  his  mother's  wishes,  Frank  had 
written  to  Anne  that  business  was  bringing  him 
to  Paris,  and  that  he  would  give  himself  the 
pleasure  of  calling  upon  her  some  time  within  the 
following  fortnight. 

In  the  stately  old  house,  which  she  had  taken 
on  the  Boulevard  Haussmann,  Anne  awaited 
Frank's  coming  with  more  emotion  than  she 
acknowledged  to  herself.  She  knew  that  he  had 
arrived  in  Paris  two  days  before,  had  seen  that 
he  was  at  the  Grand  Club,  and  the  day  previous 
had  received  from  him  a  note  asking  permission 

194 


A   VISION    OF   THE    PAST 

to  call  at  four.  He  had  been  more  than  deliberate 
in  his  attentions,  a  deliberation  to  which  she  had 
become  accustomed.  It  was,  in  fact,  part  of  his 
charm.  Often,  in  past  years,  he  had  hurt  her 
so  much  by  his  coldness  that  his  coming  brought 
a  keener  pleasure  than  the  presence  of  a  more 
ardent  suitor  might  have  done,  if  he  could  with 
any  exactness  be  termed  a  suitor  at  all. 

Long  before  her  ill-assorted  marriage  had  been 
dissolved  by  the  death  of  her  husband,  Anne 
Lennox's  name  had  been  connected  with  that  of 
Francis  Ravenel.  But  it  was  one  of  the  few 
affairs  of  his  life  which  had  caused  no  scandal, 
one  which  other  women  had  slurred  over  with  a 
laugh. 

"Anne's  all  right,  you  know,"  they  explained, 
"and  really  Frank  and  she  would  have  been  very 
well  suited  to  each  other  if  they  could  have 
married.  At  worst  nothing  but  a  flirtation;  and 
who,  knowing  her  husband,  can  blame  her  ?" 
These  were  the  excuses  framed  for  Mrs.  Lennox 
by  her  many  friends.  The  death  of  her  husband 
had  brought  the  general  belief  that  a  wedding  be 
tween  Frank  and  herself  would  naturally  follow. 
Nearly  four  years  had  elapsed,  however,  and 
marriage  between  them  seemed  no  nearer  than 
it  had  ever  done. 


KATRINE 

Frank's  present  visit  to  Paris,  Anne  Lennox 
knew,  with  some  bitterness,  was  a  business  one. 
He  had  made  that  disappointingly  plain  to  her 
in  his  letter.  But  as  she  awaited  his  coming  in  a 
white  crepe  gown,  which  made  her  seem  so  fair 
and  young,  she  hoped  the  words  might  be 
spoken  which  would  bring  to  her  the  desired 
end. 

With  all  the  love  of  which  her  worldly  heart 
was  capable,  she  had  loved  this  man  for  years, 
for  his  wealth,  his  family,  even  for  his  reputed 
successes  with  women,  which  would  give  added 
distinction  to  the  charms  of  the  woman  whom  he 
finally  selected  for  a  wife. 

After  he  had  been  announced  she  rose  to 
greet  him,  and  stood  watching  him  as  he  came 
slowly  through  the  great  hall,  noticing  the  hang 
ings  as  he  came.  It  was  a  slight  thing,  but  a 
woman  in  love  knows  the  value  of  such  signs. 

"When  did  you  come?"  she  asked. 

"Three  days  ago.'*  He  offered  no  excuse  for 
his  tardy  attention,  adding  only,  "You've  a  beau 
tiful  old  place,  Anne." 

"You  like  it?"  she  asked.  "I'm  delighted. 
You  are  not  easily  pleased.  But  you  should  see 
the  De  Nemours'  place.  Whenever  I  come  back 
after  seeing  it  this  place  seems  detestably  new, 

196 


A    VISION    OF    THE    PAST 

as    if   it  were   just  varnished!     It    is    with    the 
Countess  de  Nemours  that  Miss  Dulany  lives." 

She  watched  him  with  attentiveness. 

"Yes!"  he  answered,  in  a  tone  which  might 
either  be  asking  or  answering  a  question,  adding: 
'The  New  York  papers  are  heralding  many  com 
plimentary  things  concerning  her  voice.     Have 
you  heard  her  sing  ?" 

Anne  shook  her  head.  "She  is  hedged  about 
like  royalty.  That  dreadful  Josef  prescribes 
every  minute  of  her  day.  It  must  be  a  great 
bore  to  live  in  the  way  she  has  done.  I  met  her 
once,  however.  Do  you  know,  Frank,  she  had 
never  heard  of  Nick  van  Rensselaer,  and  when 
I  told  her  he  had  wanted  to  send  her  abroad 
before  her  fortune  came  she  seemed  amazed.  Of 
course,  your  mother  denied  the  fact  that  it  was 
Mr.  van  Rensselaer  who  enabled  her  to  come; 
but  I  always  believed  it  was  he,  didn't  you  ?" 

"You  are  complimenting  mother's  veracity," 
Frank  answered,  laughing.  "If  she  said  it  was 
not  Mr.  van  Rensselaer,  as  a  dutiful  son  I  am 
bound  to  believe  it,  am  I  not  ?" 

"Doubtless,"  Anne  answered,  smiling.  "By- 
the-way,  Madame  de  Nemours  has  left  with 
me  an  invitation  for  you  to  dine  with  her  on 
Friday." 

197 


KATRINE 

"Shall  we  hear  Miss  Dulany  sing,  do  you  sup 
pose  ?"  Frank  asked,  quietly,  unimportantly. 

"I  don't  know.  She  has  never  dined  with  us 
when  I  have  been  there.  I  believe  she  is  allowed 
frivolities  but  once  a  fortnight.  Perhaps —  But 
before  she  finished  a  maid  entered  with  Madame 
de  Nemours'  card.  "You  can  ask  for  yourself," 
Anne  explained,  glancing  at  the  card.  "Here  is 
the  Countess  in  person." 

It  had  grown  dark  in  the  room,  and  Frank 
stood  in  the  shadow  as  he  was  presented  to  the 
Countess,  who  had  come  with  the  hope  of  meet 
ing  him,  for  Katrine's  sudden  resolve  to  go  to 
Fontainebleau  had  not  dece:ved  her  at  all.  By 
that  process  of  seemingly  illogical  reasoning  by 
which  women  arrive  accurately  at  facts,  she  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  Katrine  had  gone 
away  to  avoid  meeting  either  Anne  Lennox  or 
this  Mr.  Ravenel,  and  a  far  less  brilliant  woman 
than  Madame  de  Nemours  would  have  suspected 
Frank  of  being  the  man  who  had  caused  Katrine 
such  pain  in  the  past.  That  she  had  lived  on  his 
plantation,  and  that  there  must  have  been  many 
opportunities  for  them  to  have  been  constantly 
together,  unnoted  in  a  place  twenty  miles  from 
any  dwelling,  made  the  thing  doubly  sure.  And  so 
Madame  de  Nemours,  by  reason  of  her  intuitions, 

198 


A    VISION   OF   THE    PAST 

met  Francis  Ravenel  upon  the  defensive  for  this 
girl  whom  she  had  learned  to  love  so  deeply. 

"I  am  in  despair,"  the  Countess  said,  after  the 
greetings  had  been  exchanged.  "Here  am  I 
giving  a  dinner  to  distinguished  Americans,"  this 
with  a  little  complimentary  gesture  toward  both 
of  them,  "on  Friday,  and  Katrine  Dulany  ordered 
off  to  Fontainebleau  by  that  terrible  Josef.  'You 
are  not  well!'  said  he.  'Go  on  such  a  day,  on 
such  a  train,  to  such  a  place!  Say  this!  Think 
this!  Imagine  this!'  And  the  poor  child  went  off 
yesterday  for  a  month  to  Fontainebleau,  afraid 
to  disobey.  Do  you  know,  I  am  thinking,"  she 
went  on,  "of  adopting  this  strange  child,  Ka 
trine,  legally,  just  to  circumvent  Josef?  For 
that,  and  other  reasons,"  she  explained,  laughing, 
''I  am  so  sorry  you  are  not  to  meet  her,  Mr. 
Ravenel." 

"I  have  met  Miss  Dulany  frequently,"  Frank 
answered.  "In  Carolina,  three  years  ago.  Every 
one  there  was  interested  in  her  voice." 

"Yes,"  the  Countess  answered,  "it  will  be 
like  that  always  with  her.  If  I  tell  you  some 
thing,"  she  said,  the  light  dancing  in  her  eyes 
as  she  spoke,  "will  you  be  very  discreet  about  it  ? 
I  am  thinking  of  marrying  Katrine  to  my  nephew, 
the  Due  de  Launay.  He  doesn't  know  it,  being 

199 


KATRINE 


in  Africa,  but  I  am  determined  to  be  firm  with 
both.  Think  of  those  splendid,  great  ways  of 
hers!  She  should  have  been  a  duchess  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  when  she  could  have  dressed  in 
long,  brocaded  stuffs  and  led  armies  or  killed 
a  king.  You  can  see,"  she  said,  drawing  her 
wraps  about  her,  "I  am  not  quite  sane  on  the 
subject  of  this  Irish  child,  and  go  before  I  be 
come  a  regular  bore.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Lennox; 
good-bye,  Mr.  Ravenel.  I  am  so  glad  to  have 
you  both  for  Friday  night." 

She  rose,  and  as  she  did  so  Frank  came  for 
ward  to  assist  her  with  her  wraps.  At  sight  of 
him,  in  the  full  light  of  the  doorway,  she  drew 
back  for  an  instant,  clutched  at  a  curtain,  gave 
another  quick  look,  and  fell,  with  a  white  face, 
unconscious  into  Anne's  supporting  arms. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  she  recovered 
enough  to  be  helped  to  her  carriage;  but  this 
fainting  was  followed  by  a  protracted  illness,  the 
Friday  dinner  was  postponed  indefinitely,  and 
Katrine  summoned  hurriedly  home  from  Fon- 
tainebleau. 

Naturally,  Anne  Lennox  called  and  brought 
Frank  with  her  to  make  inquiries  and  to  leave 
regrets.  It  was  in  this  visit,  as  Frank  stood 
well  in  the  sunshine  admiring  the  old  house,  that 

200 


A    VISION    OF    THE    PAST 

Quantrelle,  peering  from  his  box,  saw  him, 
and  with  an  oath  fell  back  into  the  shadow  as 
though  hiding  from  an  enemy.  Peering  from 
a  crack  in  the  door,  he  waited  Frank's  departure, 
and  after  the  carriage  had  driven  away,  seized  a 
hat  and  ran  at  a  mad  pace  down  the  narrow 
street,  upsetting  children  and  dogs  as  he  ran. 

Josef  protested  impatiently  that  it  was  a  badly 
chosen  time  for  the  Countess  to  be  ill,  speaking 
as  though  Madame  de  Nemours  had  person 
ally  selected  it  with  criminal  thoughtlessness  of 
Katrine,  whose  debut  was  close  at  hand;  for 
despite  his  protests,  the  girl  took  the  position  of 
nurse,  sitting  up  till  all  hours  of  the  night,  and 
neglecting  her  lessons  if  the  Countess  needed  or 
desired  her  services. 

The  great  lady  herself,  after  the  danger  seemed 
passed,  lay  in  silence  day  by  day,  neither  ques 
tioning  nor  explaining.  To  Katrine,  however, 
explanations  were  unnecessary,  for  she  under 
stood  that  to  Madame  de  Nemours  the  sight  of 
Frank  had  brought  back,  with  terrible  distinct 
ness,  that  other  Ravenel  who  had  been  summoned 
to  his  accounting  years  before.  Just  how  much 
Madame  de  Nemours  knew  of  Frank's  attitude 
to  Katrine  at  this  time  was  never  made  clear,  but 

201 


KATRINE 


she  clung  to  her  adopted  child  with  love  and  a 
new  comprehension. 

But  no  word  passed  between  them  at  the  time 
on  the  subject  of  either  Ravenel,  nor  did  these 
two  great  ladies  again  speak  to  each  other  on  the 
subject  of  Francis  Ravenel  until  the  night  of  the 
Countess'  death.  But  it  was  doubtless  the  bond 
in  suffering,  no  less  than  her  great  love,  which 
made  the  Countess  write  to  Dermott,  the  first 
day  of  her  convalescence,  the  letter  which  is  set 
below: 

"  I  am  nearing  the  end,  my  dear  Irish  cousin,  and 
would  set  the  house  in  order  before  I  go.  What  little 
I  have  (it  is  almost  nothing,  for  the  house  goes 
back  to  the  estate  at  my  death  and  my  income  has 
never  been  large)  I  want  to  give  to  Katrine  Dulany. 
I  want  her  to  have,  in  the  old  phrase,  everything  of 
which  I  die  possessed.  And  of  course  I  desire  you 
to  be  the  executor.  Will  you  arrange  the  necessary 
papers  and  bring  them  with  you  when  you  come  to 
hear  her  sing  ?  And  I'm  hoping  I  may  be  still  here  to 
greet  you  and  thank  you  once  more  for  a  lifetime  of 
loyalty  and  devotion." 

Sitting  in  his  New  York  office,  Dermott  read 
the  lines  with  a  face  saddened  and  gray.  But 
the  smile,  so  peculiarly  his  own,  filled  with 

202 


A    VISION    OF    THE    PAST 

cynicism  and  humor,  came  to  his  lips  at  its 
close. 

"Talk  of  justice!"  he  said.  "Why,  poetry  can't 
touch  this!  Things  always  square  themselves 
in  the  long  run,  though  we  may  not  live  to  see 
them  do  it,  but  this  is  one  of  the  times  when 
poetic  justice  itself  got  on  the  job." 

Dermott  answered  this  letter  of  Madame  de 
Nemours  in  person  as  soon  as  business  made 
it  possible.  Katrine,  who  understood  from  the 
Countess  the  significance  of  his  coming,  awaited 
him  in  the  reception-room  on  the  second  floor. 
The  curtains  were  drawn;  a  fitful  fire  made  the 
figures  in  the  tapestry  advance  and  retreat;  the 
candles  in  silver  sconces  lit  up  a  misty  Greuze 
over  the  mantel-shelf.  A  great  bowl  of  white 
roses  filled  the  room  with  fragrance,  and  Der 
mott  thought,  as  he  bent  over  Katrine's  hand, 
that  it  was  all  but  an  exquisite  setting  for  the 
girl  herself. 

Nearly  a  year  had  passed  since  their  last 
meeting,  and  naturally  Dermott  expected  some 
change  in  her.  But  Katrine  was  entirely  un 
prepared  for  the  change  in  Dermott.  She  had 
known  but  the  one  side  of  him  in  Carolina.  On 
his  previous  visits  to  Paris,  while  grateful  for  his 
kindness,  she  was  preoccupied  and  sad.  And  so, 

203 


KATRINE 


of  the  serious-eyed  man  with  the  beautiful  pallor 
and  grave  courtesy,  she  had  scant  remembrance. 

On  the  instant  of  his  coming,  however,  she 
recollected  memories  of  the  old  days;  recalled 
that  underneath  his  bright  and  stagelike  behavior 
there  had  ever  been  a  certain  constant  attention, 
a  sweeping  glance,  a  quiet  scrutiny  of  persons 
unaware  of  his  observance,  a  memory  of  de 
tails  and  words  and  dates  in  some  degree  in 
human,  and  in  the  first  hand-clasp  she  recog 
nized  the  power  she  had  not  had  the  vision  to 
see  in  the  years  before. 

With  both  hands  in  his  and  her  breath  caught 
in  her  throat  with  gratitude,  she  said : 

"If  you  think  I'm  going  to  try  to  thank  you 
for  all  you've  done  for  me  here  in  Paris,  you're 
mistaken,  Dermott.  I'm  not."  And  then,  with 
a  quick  catching  of  the  breath:  "I  couldn't  do 
it  adequately,  no  matter  how  I  tried.  I  know  it 
was  you  who  arranged  for  me  to  live  here  with 
Madame  de  Nemours;  I  know  how  you've  been 
writing  to  Josef  concerning  my  studies;  I  know 
how  your  kindness  has  followed  me  everywhere. 
That's  why  I  can't  thank  you,"  she  said,  with 
dewy  lashes  and  the  deep  note  in  her  voice  which 
made  her  speech  ever  seem  like  a  caress. 

"I've  done  little,"  Dermott  answered.  "I 
204 


A    VISION    OF    THE    PAST 

hope,  however,  to  do  more."  There  was  signifi 
cance  in  his  words,  and  Katrine  looked  at  him 
quickly,  to  find  him,  however,  gazing  intently 
into  the  fire.  "Tell  me  of  yourself,"  he  said; 
"all  of  it:  the  work,  the  ambitions,  and  the 
achievements.  I  have  hungered  at  times  for 
direct  news  of  you.  Already  your  fame  is  news 
paper  talk.  You  are  happy  ?"  he  asked,  ab 
ruptly. 

"Happier  than  I  thought  I  ever  could  be 
again,"  she  answered,  with  an  evasion. 

"Once,"  he  began,  in  a  remote  tone,  "I  was  in 
Arabia  with  a  native  serving-man  whom  I  tried 
to  persuade  to  follow  me  on  a  shooting-trip  in  the 
desert.  He  said  he  couldn't  go  because  he  had 
a  wife  who  wouldn't  leave  him.  'I  made  the 
mistake  of  beating  her  once,'  he  explained  to  me, 
'and  after  a  man  has  struck  a  woman  once  she'll 
stick  to  him  forever.": 

If  he  expected  angry  speech  of  hurt  remon 
strance  because  of  the  too  evident  implication  of 
the  story,  he  was  disappointed,  for  Katrine  raised 
her  eyes  to  his  with  sad  frankness.  "I  think  it 
speaks  a  truth,  Dermott,"  she  said.  "Some 
times  I  wonder  if  there  ever  was  a  woman  who 
loved  the  man  who  was  kindest  to  her." 

"It's  unrecorded  if  it  ever  occurred,"  he  an- 

'*  205 


KATRINE 


swered,  moodily,  taking  another  road  in  the  con 
versation  on  the  instant.  "  Madame  de  Nemours 
wrote  me  that  you  are  to  sing  at  Josef's  recital 
next  month." 

"Yes,  it  is  arranged." 

"That  will  mean  an  opera  engagement  some 
where,  will  it  not  ?" 

Katrine  laughed.  'That's  as  may  be.  It 
depends  on  how  I  sing." 

There  was  flattery  in  the  answer.  "It  will 
mean  Covent  Garden  if  it  depends  on  that," 
Dermott  said. 

"Thank  you,"  she  replied;  and  in  the  conven 
tionality  of  the  response  she  realized  anew  that 
the  jesting-time  was  by  between  them  and  she 
had  a  man  to  reckon  with. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said,  "Josef  has  written 
me  that,  with  your  permission,  I  may  hear  you 
sing.  Have  I  that  permission,  Katrine  ?" 

"You  have,"  she  answered,  noting  the  hand 
some  line  of  the  bent  head  and  shoulders. 

"To-morrow  at  two?" 

"To-morrow  at  two.  And  then,"  said  Katrine, 
"you  will  see  for  yourself  what  I've  been  doing, 
so  there's  no  use  discussing  it,  is  there  ?  Tell 
me  of  yourself  and  Barney.  Does  the  newspaper 
work  go  well  ?" 

206 


A   VISION    OF   THE    PAST 

"He's  doing  splendidly.  He's  more  than 
making  good." 

"And  the  land  you  purchased  in  North 
Carolina!  Do  the  eagles  flourish  on  it?"  she 
inquired. 

"Not  yet.  But  there's  excellent  clay  there, 
and  I've  turned  it  into  a  brick  factory  for  the 
present.  The  truth  is,  I  needn't  have  bought 
that  land.  I  suppose  you've  heard  of  the  new 
railroad  through  Ravenel  ?"  he  asked. 

"Something,"  she  said,  "but  not  definitely." 

'They're  building  it  on  the  other  side  from 
the  'Eagle  Tract,'  "  he  explained,  smiling  at  the 
words.  "Mr.  Ravenel  is  practically  putting  the 
thing  through  himself.  Do  you  know,  Katrine," 
he  continued,  "I  think  I  have  underrated  Ravenel. 
Sometimes  in  the  last  year,  when  I've  seen  him 
clearing  obstacles  from  his  path,"  and  the  way 
Dermott  knew  how  to  belittle  a  rival  was  plainly 
shown  in  the  pitying  tone  he  used  here,  "I've 
almost  admired  him.  I  have  sometimes  thought 
if  circumstances  had  been  different  he  might  have 
even  been  something  of  a  man." 

But  Katrine's  utter  honesty  was  a  thing  Der 
mott  had  not  calculated  upon.  "Dermott," 
she  said,  "I  have  always  tried  to  be  frank  with 
you,  haven't  I  ?" 

207 


KATRINE 

"And  at  times,"  he  broke  in,  with  a  smile, 
"have  succeeded  discouragingly  well." 

"I  want  to  be  so  still.  Madame  de  Nemours 
has  told  me  the  story  of  Ravenel." 

McDermott  waited,   serene,   inspiredly   silent. 

"But,"  Katrine  went  on,  "I  was  a  bit  pre 
pared  for  it.  Almost  the  last  thing  father  said 
to  me  before  he  died  was  that  you  were  planning 
trouble  for  Mr.  Ravenel." 

McDermott  waited  still,  but  with  a  sterner 
look  upon  his  keen  and  ardent  face. 

"Madame  de  Nemours  has  told  me  you  need 
only  a  paper  and  a  certain  witness  at  Tours  to 
carry  out  your  purpose.  Is  it  true  ?" 

"It  is" 

"And  that  purpose  is—        She  hesitated. 

"To  see  justice  done  to  Madame  de  Nemours," 
he  answered. 

"It  will  mean  that  Mr.  Ravenel  has  no  right 
either  to  his  home  or  his  name  ?" 

The  pleading  and  protest  in  her  voice  did  not 
escape  Dermott  as  he  answered: 

"It  will  mean  just  that!" 

"And  nothing  can  move  you  from  your  pur 
pose  ?" 

"Nothing  that  I  can  now  think  of,"  he  an 
swered,  adding  with  some  vehemence:  "Katrine 

208 


A    VISION    OF    THE    PAST 

Dulany,  is  it  that  you  know  me  so  little  ?  My 
cousin  suffered  much.  She  was  deserted  by  a 
scoundrel  while  little  more  than  a  child.  These 
things  must  be  paid  for.  But  if  you  think  I'd 
do  a  crooked  thing  in  business  to  settle  a  grudge 
or  belittle  a  rival,  you  don't  know  me  at  all. 
There's  none,  not  Ravenel  himself,  who  will 
demand  everything  proven  beyond  doubt  sooner 
than  I.  I'll  take  every  point  I  can  honestly,  but 
the  man  who  is  not  absolutely  honest  in  business 
is  a  fool.  Until  he  learns  to  be  honest  from  the 
higher  reason,  he  should  be  honest  from  selfish 
ness.  It  pays.  It's  capital." 

"Then  you  believe  the  cause  just  ?" 

"I  believe  that  the  present  Ravenel's  father 
married  in  America  knowing  that  he  had  a 
living  wife  and  child  in  France." 

Katrine  stood,  hand-clasped,  looking  straight 
into  Dermott's  eyes.  But  what  she  saw  was  an 
old  garden  in  Carolina,  wind-blown  pines,  the 
scarlet  creepers  around  an  old  bench,  and  a  man 
with  blanched  face  and  restless  eyes;  what  she 
heard,  underneath  Dermott's  voice,  were  words 
from  the  past: 

"/  might  lie  to  you,  but  the  thing  that  separates 
us  is  family  pride,  family  pride.  I  am  going  away 
to-day,  going  because  I  do  not  dare  to  stay!" 

209 


KATRINE 

"Nothing  else  in  life  could  hurt  Mr.  Ravenel 
as  this  thing  will  if  proven,"  she  said,  at  length. 

"Naturally  not,"  McDermott  answered,  suc 
cinctly;  "  but  it  is  not  proven  yet,"  he  added,  in  an 
impartial  tone,  adding,  "  I  have  not  been  able  to 
find  the  witness  I  need." 

Was  it  Katrine's  imagination  that  made  her 
think  the  door  moved  suddenly  as  by  human 
agency  ?  Had  some  of  the  servants  been  listen 
ing  ?  She  paused  in  her  talk,  and,  looking  into 
the  hall,  saw  Quantrelle  the  Red  pass  quickly 
up  the  stairs  with  his  daily  flower  for  Madame 
de  Nemours. 

"And,  believing  that  Ravenel  did  not  belong 
to  Mr.  Ravenel,"  she  continued,  "you  en 
couraged  him  to  build  the  railroad  ?" 

"I  neither  encouraged  nor  discouraged  that 
enterprise,"  Dermott  answered.  "Fate  steered, 
and  did  it  well." 

"And  Mrs.  Ravenel  ?"  The  name,  as  she  spoke 
it,  was  a  remonstrance. 

"Mademoiselle  Dulany,"  Dermott  answered, 
"indeed  you've  a  wrong  conception  of  the  mat 
ter.  There  is  to  be  no  stage  play  or  newspaper 
work  in  the  case.  It  will  be  quietly  adjusted. 
The  Ravenels  are  not  people  to  permit  any  pub 
licity.  There  will  be  compromises.  Mrs.  Ra- 

2IO 


A    VISION    OF    THE    PAST 

venel,  I  hope,  need  never  know  the  facts  in  the 
case.  There  is  none  need  ever  know,  save 
Frank." 

"You  have  never  liked  him,  have  you,  Der- 
mott  ?"  Katrine  asked,  with  directness. 

"Never,"  Dermott  answered,  with  a  frankness 
matching  her  own. 

"Why?" 

"Faith,  and  there  are  three  excellent  reasons," 
Dermott  returned,  with  something  of  his  old 
manner:  "He  was  himself;  I  was  myself;  and 
a  third,"  he  paused,  with  all  the  power  of  his 
personality  in  his  great  gray  eyes,  "a  third,"  he 
repeated,  "which  I  hope  some  time  to  explain  to 
you  at  great  length,  little  Katrine." 


XX 

THE    INFLUENCE    OF    WORK 

OF  Francis  Ravenel  at  this  time  much  could 
be  written.  In  the  first  months  of  his  sep 
aration  from  Katrine,  during  all  of  the  period 
of  his  mother's  illness,  he  remained  firm  in  the 
intention  expressed  in  the  unsent  letter  to  visit 
her  in  Paris,  ask  her  forgiveness,  and  make  her 
a  formal  offer  of  marriage.  But  quick  on  the 
heels  of  his  return  to  New  York  had  followed  the 
railroad  business,  to  which  Dermott  McDermott's 
insolence  had  added  new  reason  for  making  the 
enterprise  a  successful  one. 

But  underneath  the  several  postponements  of 
visiting  Katrine,  the  real  cause  of  them  all,  in  fact, 
was  a  fear  of  the  well-merited  rebuff  which  he 
might  receive  from  her.  He  understood  her  pride 
well;  and  although  he  believed  that  she  had  not 
ceased  to  love  him,  he  doubted  if  he  held  her  re 
spect,  and  many  times,  when  instinct  bade  him  go 
to  her,  he  had  recalled  the  pleading  tones  of  her 

212 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    WORK 

voice  in  that  last  interview,  when  she  had  cried: 
"We  may  never  meet  again!  Ah,  please  God, 
we  may  never  meet  again!" 

Katrine's  letters,  which  came  to  him  with  per 
fect  regularity,  kept  him  closely  in  touch  with  her 
daily  life  in  Paris.  He  looked  anxiously  in  them 
for  any  variation  in  her  sentiments  toward  him 
self,  but  found  none. 

Reading  one  night  in  Firdousi,  he  discovered 
a  passage  which  described  Katrine  so  perfectly 
to  him  that  he  put  a  marker  between  the  pages 
of  the  book,  and  kept  it  by  his  bedside  to  read 
at  night  as  a  pious  person  might  have  kept  the 
confession  of  his  faith. 

"  She  was  an  elemental  force,"  wrote  the  old  poet, 
"  and  astonished  me  by  her  amount  of  life,  when  I  saw 
her  day  after  day  radiating  every  instant  redundant  joy 
and  grace  on  all  around  her.  Though  the  bias  of  her 
nature  was  not  to  thought  but  to  sympathy,  yet  was 
she  so  perfect  in  her  own  nature  as  to  meet  intellectual 
persons  by  the  fulness  of  her  heart,  warming  them  by 
her  sentiments,  believing,  as  she  did,  that  by  dealing 
nobly  with  all,  all  would  show  themselves  noble." 

And  there  were  sometimes  bits  of  her  letters 
which  drove  him  wild  with  regret  for  what  he 
had  done. 

213 


KATRINE 

"  Is  personal  happiness,  after  all,"  she  wrote  once,  "  a 
very  important  thing  ?  Nothing  can  ever  make  me  suffer 
again  as  I  have  suffered,  for  I  have  learned  to  use  a 
man's  solace:  work;  work  in  which  I  can  go  far  away 
from  myself  and  be  as  impersonal  as  a  problem  in  ge 
ometry.  But  I  ask  myself,  Is  that  what  was  intended  ? 
Sometimes  I  seem  to  touch  the  edge  of  the  knowledge 
that  it  is  (perhaps)  greater  to  be  a  sad,  little,  suffering, 
incompetent  mother,  than  to  be  the  person  which  trouble 
and  music  have  made  of  me." 

But  in  his  self-abasement  Frank  failed  to  take 
into  the  accounting  the  stupendous  effect  which 
the  New  York  influences  and  the  handling  of 
great  affairs  had  had  upon  his  own  character. 
Day  by  day  he  had  learned  more  plainly  the 
lessons  of  responsibility,  of  continued  and  con 
centrated  action,  and  even  McDermott  himself 
could  not  use  Napoleon's  great  question,  "What 
has  he  done  ?"  more  meaningly  than  Frank  him 
self  did  now. 

But  with  this  new  manhood  came  a  finer  com 
prehension  of  his  baseness  to  Katrine,  and  an 
emphasized  doubt  as  to  whether  she  ever  could 
forgive  the  miserable  selfishness  which  he  had 
displayed. 

In  his  visits  between  the  States  and  England 
(he  made  three  during  Katrine's  stay  in  Paris,  be- 

214 


THE    INFLUENCE   OF    WORK 

sides  the  one  in  which  he  had  met  the  Countess  de 
Nemours)  he  went  from  one  side  of  the  question  to 
the  other  in  his  thinking,  wanting  to  visit  Katrine, 
but  realizing  to  the  full  that  Mademoiselle  Du- 
lany,  a  singer  to  the  world,  or  Katrine,  adopted 
daughter  of  the  Countess  de  Nemours,  and  a 
possible  duchess,  were  worlds  removed  from  the 
little  Irish  girl  who  had  loved  him  in  the  Carolina 
woods.  Fontainebleau!  Fontainebleau!  Since 
the  day  the  Countess  had  told  him  of  Katrine's 
being  there,  the  name  repeated  itself  in  his  head 
like  a  song.  He  remembered  the  silence  of  the 
great  trees,  the  nightingales  at  dusk  among  them, 
and  dreamed  of  a  day  with  Katrine  there,  hear 
ing  her  quaint  humor,  her  daring  speeches,  her 
tenderness,  her  selfless  view  of  life,  of  herself,  of 
everything  in  all  the  world  save  him. 

At  the  Christmas-time  of  Katrine's  last  year  in 
Paris,  he  received  a  quaint  illumination  with  the 
following  note  of  explanation: 

MY  DEAR  UNKNOWN  FRIEND, — I  have  thought  this 
out  and  printed  it,  too.  It  is  not  very  well  done,  but  I 
have  tried  to  make  it  sincere.  Of  course  I  got  the  idea 
of  making  prayers  for  myself  from  R.  L.  S. 

I  am  sending  it  to  you  with  a  heart  full  of  hope  that 
your  Christmas  may  be  a  merry  one. 

Affectionately,          KATRINE  DULANY. 
215 


KATRINE 


He  read  and  reread  the  printed  lines,  and 
finally  had  them  framed  and  hung  by  his  bed 
side,  where  they  were  the  first  thing  upon  which 
his  eyes  rested  in  the  morning: 

"  Grant  me  the  ability  to  do  some  one  thing  well. 

"  Give  me  sympathy  for  the  suffering  of  others 
which  has  been  brought  to  them  by  their  own  acts. 

"  Grant  that  I  may  have  courage  for  the  weak  and 
the  friendship  of  those  who  demand  the  best  of  my 
nature. 

"  Remove  all  doubts  from  me  that  there  will  be 
ultimate  peace  and  happiness  for  every  one. 

"  Let  fear  of  the  consequences  of  a  right  act  be  far 
from  me.  Let  me  forget  the  words  expediency,  con 
vention,  and  reward. 

"  Grant  me  largeness  of  judgment,  and  silence  for 
all  weakness,  especially  that  of  woman. 

"  And  give  me,  each  day,  my  daily  work,  with  rest 
at  night  under  some  friendly  stars." 

Early  in  April,  after  the  lonesomest  winter  of 
his  life,  he  received  the  following  letter  from  his 
mother,  who  was  still  in  Paris  with  Anne  Lennox: 

MY  DEAR,  DEAR  CHILD, — I  have  been  going  about  a 
great  deal,  meeting  old  friends  and  making  some  new 
ones,  which  accounts  for  my  not  having  written  you 
last  week.  Anne's  house  is  like  a  Union  Station  for 

216 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    WORK 

repose  and  solitude.  She  has  people  in  to  luncheon 
and  dinner  and  tea,  and  I  suspect  even  for  the  cafe  au 
lait  in  the  mornings.  I  enjoy  it,  however.  One  is 
seldom  bored,  though  frequently  exhausted.  Why  I 
am  writing  this  dull  introduction  I  cannot  say,  for  I 
have  more  important  things  to  tell. 

I  have  met  Katrine  Dulany. 

Anne  and  I  went  to  the  Countess  de  Nemours*  re 
ception  on  Friday  night.  We  were  all  in  a  whirl  of 
unfinished  sentences  when  Miss  Dulany  entered.  I 
wish  you  might  have  seen  her,  as  she  came  toward  us! 
Of  course  she  was  a  very  pretty  child  in  North  Carolina, 
but  she  has  developed  into  something  really  remarkable. 
She  wore  white,  decollete,  with  her  hair  Madonna-wise. 
And  she  has  such  distinction!  Such  repose!  Truly, 
Frank,  she  came  in  so  quietly  that  she  made  every  one 
else  seem  to  enter  on  horseback. 

Coming  directly  toward  me,  she  said:  "Perhaps  you 
do  not  remember  me,  Mrs.  Ravenel!  I  am  Katrine 
Dulany.  My  father  was  overseer  of  your  plantation, 
in  North  Carolina,  for  nearly  three  years."  It  was  as 
though  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  had  come  to  life  and  asked 
me  if  I  remembered  when  she  was  my  parlor-maid! 

And  she  stayed  and  talked  to  me  with  sweetest  def 
erence  and  an  appeal  in  her  eyes,  and  I  went  home 
quite  exalted  to  think  this  much-desired  person  had 
singled  me  out  for  such  marked  attention. 

But  during  the  night  (and  oh,  my  little,  little  boy!  you 
will  forgive  me  if  what  I  write  hurts  you,  won't  you  ?) 

217 


KATRINE 

I  awoke  suddenly,  and  it  seemed  that  everything  was 
clear  to  me.  I  recalled  your  story  of  loving  the  woman 
whom  you  didn't  think  it  right  for  you  to  marry,  of  your 
inexplicable  stay  at  Ravenel  through  an  entire  summer, 
your  depression  afterward,  and  your  sudden  plunge  into 
business.  I  couldn't  help  putting  these  things  together 
and  believing  that  this  little  Irish  girl  was  the  woman 
in  the  case. 

But  if  you  don't  want  me  to  know,  I  wont  know. 
I  never  knew  anything  you  didn't  want  me  to.  That's 
a  mother's  way.  And  don't  say  a  word  about  the 
matter  to  me  unless  you  care  to.  Believe  me,  boy  of 
my  heart,  I  will  respect  your  silence. 

It  is  three  months  since  you  have  been  here.  Miss 
Dulany  sings  on  the  23d.  Can't  you  come  over  ?  Every 
one  is  going,  and  we  have  taken  a  box.  Do  come. 

MOTHER. 

Even  to  his  mother  Frank  could  not  bring 
himself  to  mention  Katrine's  name,  and  he 
avoided  all  explanations  by  cabling  his  reply: 

Will  arrive  in  Paris  on  the  20th. — F.  R. 


XXI 

THE    NIGHT   OF    KATRINE'S    DEBUT 

THE  yearly  recital  of  Josef's  pupils  is  an  event 
to  which  Paris  looks  forward  with  interest,  for 
the  great  teacher  makes  of  it  always  an  artistic 
triumph.  That  year  there  was  more  than  usual 
excitement  over  the  event,  because  of  the  first 
appearance  in  public  of  Mademoiselle  Dulany, 
whose  voice  had  been  enthusiastically  written  of 
by  every  critic  whom  Josef  had  permitted  to  hear 
her  sing.  Two  of  the  greatest  singers  of  the 
world,  old  pupils  of  Josef,  had  been  bidden  to 
sing  with  her.  Campanali  and  Rigard,  whose 
sonorous  bass  tones  have  thrilled  two  continents, 
came  gladly  at  the  bidding  of  their  old  master, 
to  whom  they  owed  so  much.  The  opera  was 
"Faust."  The  house  was  packed  from  pit  to 
dome,  with  seats  in  the  aisles,  and  many  great 
people. 

The  Countess,  trembling  with  excitement,  had 
with  her  in  her  box  her  old  friends  the  Townes, 

219 


KATRINE 

from  London,  for  the  event.  In  the  next  box 
the  Due  d'Aumale  and  a  party  of  club  men  were 
making  bets  about  the  success  of  the  evening.  In 
the  next  sat  Francis  Ravenel,  with  his  mother  and 
Anne  Lennox.  He  was  more  excited  than  he 
had  believed  it  possible  for  him  to  be  over  any 
thing  in  life.  The  lights,  the  chatter  of  the  gay 
throng,  the  moving  of  the  people  in  their  visiting 
from  place  to  place,  the  tuning  of  the  instruments, 
jarred  upon  his  nerves  frightfully  and  heightened 
the  tension  at  which  he  was.  Outwardly,  how 
ever,  he  appeared  as  unmoved  as  if  sitting  alone 
at  the  club.  His  mother  and  Anne  were  recog 
nizing  many  acquaintances  in  the  audience,  and 
there  was  a  constant  procession  of  men  coming 
to  the  box  to  pay  their  respects.  With  every 
one  the  topic  was  La  Dulany.  "Would  she 
have  stage  fright?"  Josef  said  not.  "Will  she 
be  as  beautiful  as  rumor  has  said?"  "It  is  a 
great  undertaking  for  an  absolutely  unknown 
debutante  to  sing  with  Campanali,  who  will, 
nay,  must,  naturally  take  all  the  honors." 

Meanwhile,  Katrine,  in  her  little  white  room  at 
the  Countess  de  Nemours',  had  just  written: 

DEAR  UNKNOWN, — I  have  shut  every  one  out  of  my 
room  and  shall  see  them  no  more  until  afterward.     Can 

220 


THE    NIGHT   OF    KATRINE'S    DEBUT 

I  do  it  ?  I  have  prayed  God,  who  knows  how  I  have 
suffered  and  worked  and  despaired  and  desired,  to 
help  me  now.  I  have  asked  Him  to  remember  what  I 
have  tried  to  do,  to  remember  my  self-denials,  my  sur 
render,  my  lonesome  life,  my  broken  heart,  and  give  it 
me  to  do  this  one  thing  well. 

They  will  ^11  be  there,  all  those  people  who  have 
heard  of  me,  and  Josef.  Ah,  for  his  sake,  too,  I  have 
prayed  to  do  greatly,  inspiredly,  the  thing  he  would 
have  me  do!  And  he  will  be  there,  too,  I  am  told.  He 
has  crossed  the  ocean  to  hear  me  sing.  Oh,  dear  God, 
just  once,  if  never  again,  let  him  know  me  through  my 
voice,  know  that  I  forgive  and  forget  and  understand! 

The  carriage  is  ready.  Good-bye,  dear,  dear  room, 
dear  old  books,  dear  old  scores!  Good-bye,  Dear 
Unknown! 

It  is  the  last  time  I  can  write  you  of  my  hopes  to  be 
great.  To-morrow  you  will  know  what  I  have  done. 
But  whether  I  go  to  success  or  failure,  I  kiss  you  with 
my  heart  full  of  love  and  gratitude,  and  so — good-bye! 

KATRINE. 


"There  is  Josef  now;  look,  Mrs.  Ravenel!" 
Mrs.  Lennox  cried,  pointing  to  a  man  who  had 
just  entered  the  stage  box.  'The  man  with  the 
iron-gray  hair.  And  the  eyes!  Did  you  ever  see 
such  eyes  ?  And  who  is  that  with  him  ?  Great 
Heavens,"  she  exclaimed,  "it  is  that  pervasive 
is  221 


KATRINE 


Irishman  who  was  down  in  North  Carolina, 
Dermott  McDermott!" 

Josef,  pale  as  a  statue,  had  taken  a  place  in  the 
shadow  of  the  box,  back  from  the  reach  of  opera- 
glasses.  His  hands  trembled,  and  at  times  his 
lips  twitched  backward,  as  one  who  has  lost  con 
trol  through  too  long  a  strain. 

"Do  look  out  for  him,"  Katrine  had  said  to 
Dermott,  the  night  before,  between  tears  and  a 
smile.  "  I  can  get  through  it  all  right,  but  I  am 
fearful  it  may  kill  Josef.  He  takes  me  very  seri 
ously,  you  know." 

A  heavy  knocking  came.  The  leader  took  his 
place.  The  overture  began,  and  when  the  cur 
tain  rose  Campanali  received  the  genuine  ova 
tion  which  was  his  due.  At  the  conclusion  of 
that  great  duet,  "Be  Mine  the  Delight,"  there 
was  the  vision  of  Marguerite  at  the  spinning- 
wheel,  and,  after  three  years,  Francis  Ravenel 
saw  Katrine,  but  in  a  blurred  vision  with  fold 
upon  fold  of  gauze  between  them.  Finally  the 
soldiers  and  maidens  disappeared,  and  there 
came  an  expectant  hush.  One  heard  now!  The 
pause  was  marked,  intentional,  before  there  came 
toward  the  footlights,  in  their  most  relentless 
glare,  a  girl  with  gladness  and  joy  in  her  very 
walk.  Neither  a  heavy  German  peasant  girl 

222 


THE    NIGHT   OF    KATRINE'S    DEBUT 

nor  a  French  soubrette.  No  dreary,  timid, 
niadchen,  but  a  glad  young  soul  conscious  of 
nothing  save  joy,  with  the  beauty  in  her  face  of 
youth  and  power  as  she  looked  at  the  gay  throng 
of  the  fair.  Then,  with  the  gaze  of  the  entire 
house  upon  her,  her  eyes  encountered  those  of 
Faust.  There  was  no  start  of  surprise,  but,  as 
though  drawn  to  him  by  a  law  beyond  control, 
her  eyes  rested  in  his,  and  with  no  gesture,  with 
out  a  note  sung,  with  nothing  but  a  change  in 
expression,  one  understood  great  love  had  come 
to  her,  the  first  love  of  a  woman,  which  is  never 
lived  over  nor  forgotten. 

And  Francis  Ravenel,  sitting  back  of  the  others 
in  the  box,  recalled  that  look  and  drew  behind 
the  curtains.  In  memory,  soft  arms  were  round 
his  throat  as  a  voice,  the  same,  yet  not  the  same, 
sang: 

"No  signer,  not  a  lady  am  I, 
Nor  yet  a  beauty, 
And  do  not  need  an  arm 
To  guide  me  on  my  way." 

A  golden  voice,  with  tones  so  breathed  they  had 
the  liquidness  of  the  bluebird's  call,  as  Paris 
held  its  breath  before  the  beauty  and  wonder 
of  it;  a  voice  which  Frank  remembered  amid  the 

223 


KATRINE 


pine  and  honeysuckle  underneath  the  night  blue 
of  the  Carolinas,  saying: 

"God  keep  you  always  just  as  you  are,  be 
loved." 

From  the  first  scene  to  the  clear  end,  when,  in 
the  divine  trio,  Campanali,  Regard,  and  Katrine 
caught  fire  from  each  other  and  went  mad  to 
gether,  in  that  great,  strong  music  where  right 
triumphs,  as  the  song  climbs  higher  and  higher  in 
its  great  insistence,  it  was  such  triumph  as  no 
first  performance  had  been  in  the  memory  of  our 
generation,  a  success  that  admitted  no  cavilling 
or  question,  a  success  indisputable  and  unparal 
leled,  and  before  the  performance  was  ended  the 
papers  were  chronicling,  for  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
that  a  world  star  had  arisen  in  the  firmament  of 
song. 

McDermott's  face  was  an  open  book  for  all 
who  cared  to  read.  The  one  woman  on  earth 
for  him  was  triumphing,  and  his  thoughts  were 
all  for  her,  and  Master  Josef  saw  and  noted  even 
in  his  excitement  and  trembling. 

Frank,  too,  gloried  in  Katrine's  success,  but 
underneath  the  pleasure  there  was  a  senseless 
jealousy,  a  resentment  of  the  position  in  which  it 
placed  her  to  him.  And  the  conduct  of  Dermott 

224 


THE    NIGHT    OF    KATRINE'S    DEBUT 

McDermott  during  the  evening  was  another  bitter 
morsel  for  his  palate;  for  the  Irishman  carried 
an  air  of  ownership  of  everything,  even  of  Josef; 
gave  an  appraising  and  managerial  attention  to 
the  audience;  and  bowed  to  Katrine,  when  she 
smiled  at  him  over  a  huge  bunch  of  green  orchids 
with  an  Irish  flag  in  the  ribbons,  with  such  an  air 
of  proprietorship  that  it  made  the  time  scarcely 
endurable  to  Frank.  But  he  played  the  game 
by  a  masterly  method,  and  drew  nearer  to  Anne, 
looking  into  her  eyes  with  the  devotion  which  he 
knew  so  well  how  to  assume,  despising  himself 
as  he  did  so.  But  after  the  last  brava  had  been 
given  and  he  had  put  his  mother  into  the 
brougham,  saying,  abruptly,  that  he  preferred  to 
walk,  his  heart  and  head  came  to  an  unexpected 
encounter.  He  stood  alone,  unnoting  the  passers- 
by,  oblivious  of  the  superfluous  praise  of  Katrine's 
voice  which  he  heard  in  the  broken  talk,  looking 
into  the  distant  sky  at  the  two  great  towers  of 
Notre  Dame. 

It  was  not  far  to  the  De  Nemours'  house. 
Although  very  late,  it  wrould  doubtless  be  filled 
with  friends  congratulating  Katrine,  and  under 
the  circumstances,  he  reasoned,  there  could  seem 
no  precipitancy  in  calling  immediately  to  offer 
congratulations. 

225 


KATRINE 


He  found  the  house  a  blaze  of  light,  with  ser 
vants  going  back  and  forth  with  arms  full  of 
flowers.  In  front  there  were  many  carriages  and 
fiacres.  By  the  entrance  arch  were  several  news 
paper  men,  one  of  whom  spoke  Frank's  name  as 
he  passed.  Everywhere  there  was  an  air  of 
bustle  and  disorder.  On  the  second  floor  he  saw 
lights  being  carried  from  one  room  to  another, 
as  though  hurried  preparations  were  being  made. 

Giving  his  card  to  the  French  servant,  who 
had  ushered  him  with  an  important  and  ex 
cited  manner  into  a  small  reception  -  room,  he 
waited.  His  heart  throbbed  like  a  school-boy's 
with  his  first  love.  In  a  minute  he  would  see 
her,  would  hold  her  hand.  In  his  pocket  he 
carried  a  letter,  one  of  Katrine's  many  letters,  to 
"The  Dear  Unknown." 

"I  have  not  forgotten  this  old  love,"  she  had 
written,  "I  shall  never  forget.  I  never  close  my 
eyes  without  thinking  of  him  nor  without  a 
prayer  for  him  upon  my  lips." 

Suddenly  there  came  a  laugh,  a  jolly,  musical 
sound  of  real  mirth,  and  he  heard  Dermott's 
voice  dominating  and  directing  on  the  upper 
floor.  Immediately  after  there  came  a  silence, 
and  then,  from  the  turn  in  the  stairs,  he  heard 
the  same  voice,  with  a  touch  of  insolence,  speak- 

226 


THE    NIGHT   OF    KATRINE'S    DEBUT 

ing  to  the  servant  to  whom  he  had  given   the 
card: 

"  Say  to  Mr.  Ravenel  that  Mademoiselle  Dulany 
regrets  that  it  is  impossible  for  her  to  see  him." 
And  then,  with  a  dramatic  note,  "Tell  him,"  the 
Irishman  added,  "she  leaves  within  an  hour  to 
sing  before  the  Queen." 


XXII 

FRANK  AND  KATRINE  MEET  AT  THE 
VAN  RENSSELAER'S 

IN  the  three  months  which  followed  Katrine's 
great  success,  Frank  heard  of  her  constantly, 
always  with  a  curious  self-belittling  and  a  re 
viewing  of  his  own  conduct,  fine  in  its  self- 
depreciation.  He  had  betrayed  the  great  un 
spoken  trust  of  the  finest  human  being  he  had 
ever  known,  and  afterward  dallied,  for  fear  of 
rebuff  to  his  vanity,  from  squaring  the  account  as 
well  as  he  could  by  giving  her  a  chance  to  refuse 
him  openly.  He  felt  that  he  could  never  again 
be  to  her  what  he  had  been.  Three  years  of  such 
work  as  she  had  done  would  change  her  ideals 
much. 

He  reflected,  too,  upon  the  changes  in  him 
self,  one  of  the  greatest  being  his  recognition 
of  the  sound  virtues  of  Dermott  McDermott. 
There  had  been  times  when  circumvention  by 
this  son  of  Erin  had  been  so  masterly,  so  deft, 
so  unexpected  that  Frank  had  felt  like  extend- 

228 


FRANK   AND    KATRINE    MEET 

ing  a  congratulating  hand.  Once  he  had  actual 
ly  laughed  aloud,  at  a  board  meeting,  over  an 
election  which  McDermott  had  dictated.  But 
these  things  assumed  a  new  importance  when  he 
thought  of  Dermott's  love  for  Katrine,  for  the 
queer  Celtic  genius  was  singularly  unattuned  to 
failure  in  anything,  and  never,  in  any  matter 
save  that  of  the  railroad,  could  Frank  claim  a 
complete  victory.  And  those  who  believed  the 
railroad  issue  still  unsettled  were  not  wanting. 

Soon  after  the  Paris  visit,  Frank  heard,  through 
Anne  Lennox,  of  the  death  of  Madame  de  Ne 
mours.  The  letter  reiterated,  as  well,  that  Ka 
trine  had  sung  to  England's  good  old  Queen. 
Before  this  confirmation  Frank  had  doubted  this 
statement  as  one  of  the  outputs  of  Dermott's 
oriental  imagination. 

In  August,  having  had  no  letter  from  Katrine 
or  his  mother  for  over  a  month,  he  accepted  Nick 
van  Rensselaer's  invitation  to  Waring-on-the- 
Sea,  with  no  knowledge  whatever  as  to  the  other 
members  of  the  party.  As  he  was  driven  up  the 
carriageway,  under  great  New  England  pines, 
and  saw  the  shining  sea  and  the  far-off  Magnolia 
hills,  he  thought,  for  the  first  time,  of  other  guests 
who  would  probably  be  there,  and  recalled  with 
annoyance  how  one  meets  the  same  people  every- 

229 


KATRINE 

where.  After  he  had  dressed  for  dinner,  he  stood 
looking  from  the  balcony  of  his  room  into  the 
twilight  thinking  of  Katrine,  and  wondering  why 
her  monthly  letter  had  not  arrived. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  encountered  Sally 
Porter,  whom  he  had  not  met  since  she  had  been 
his  mother's  guest  at  Ravenel,  three  years  before. 

"Why,  Frank  Ravenel!"  she  cried,  at  sight  of 
him.  "I  thought  you  were  in — where  did  we 
hear  he  was,  mother  ?" 

"Several  places,  my  dear,"  her  mother  re 
sponded,  placidly. 

"Java,  Japan,  or  Jupiter,"  Nick  van  Rensse- 
laer  broke  in,  coming  forward  with  outstretched 
hand.  "  How  are  you,  old  man  ?" 

As  Frank  returned  the  grip  he  looked  over 
Nick's  shoulder  to  a  merry  group  which  stood 
near  the  entrance  to  the  music-room,  and  his 
amazed  eyes  rested  upon  Katrine  Dulany.  A 
new  Katrine,  yet  still  the  old.  She  wore  white 
lace.  Her  black  hair  was  parted  and  rippled 
over  the  ears  into  a  low  coil.  There  was  even 
more  the  look  of  an  August  peach  to  her  than  he 
remembered:  dusky  pink  with  decided  yellow  in 
the  curve  of  her  chin,  as  he  had  once  laughing 
ly  asserted.  But  the  softness  and  uplifted  ex 
pression  of  the  misty  blue  eyes  were  the  same, 

230 


FRANK    AND    KATRINE    MEET 

and  added  to  all  was  the  repose  of  manner  which 
comes  only  from  the  consciousness  of  power  or  of 
sorrows  lived  beyond. 

For  a  moment  he  seemed  unable  to  make  any 
effort  to  go  to  her,  and  then  came  to  him  an  in 
tense  consciousness  of  himself,  of  her,  and  their 
mutual  past.  As  their  eyes  met,  however,  he 
discovered  that  whatever  embarrassment  existed 
was  his  own,  for  Katrine  saw  him,  seemed  to 
make  sure  that  her  eyes  did  not  deceive  her,  and 
with  a  glad  smile  stretched  both  hands  toward 
him. 

"Why,  it's  Mr.  Ravenel!"  she  cried. 

Her  eyes  rested  in  his  as  she  spoke.  "It  has 
been  three,  oh,  so  many  years,  since  we  have 
met,"  she  began,  with  a  smile. 

"Don't,"  he  answered,  holding  her  hands. 
"It  was  only  yesterday." 

"Three  yesterdays,"  she  said,  with  the  old 
"make-believe"  look  in  her  eyes.  "Half  a 
week.  Somehow  it  seems  longer,,  doesn't  it  ?" 

"I  was  sorry  to  miss  seeing  you  in  Paris  last 
May,"  Frank  said.  "I  wanted  so  much  to  con 
gratulate  you;  but  congratulations  would  have 
been  an  old  story  even  at  that  time." 

"Everything  was  in  such  a  ferment  the  night 
you  called,"  she  explained.  "Josef  was  quite 

231 


KATRINE 

beside  himself,  and  I  was  rushing  off  somewhere, 
I  remember,  and  I  didn't  get  the  card  until  af 
terward,"  again  the  perfectly  frank,  sweet  look, 
"but  I  recall  that  it  gave  me  pleasure  to  know 
you  came." 

At  dinner  Francis  found,  with  some  annoy 
ance,  that  he  was  placed  between  Mrs.  Dysart 
and  Miss  Porter,  at  the  remote  end  of  the  table 
from  Katrine,  whom  he  could  see  at  Nick  van 
Rensselaer's  right,  showing  her  dimples  and  the 
flash  of  white  teeth  and  scarlet  lips  as  she  told 
some  story  of  her  own. 

He  noted  how  easily  she  was  first,  so  sure  of 
herself  and  her  power,  but  with  a  marked  defer 
ence  to  the  women  as  well  as  to  the  men  who 
courted  her  attention  so  openly.  "Such  con 
sidered  conduct!"  he  commented  to  himself, 
approvingly. 

No  chance  came  to  him  to  talk  to  Katrine 
again  that  night,  but,  analytical  as  he  was  of 
woman,  he  could  discern  no  smallest  sign  that 
it  was  by  any  design  of  hers,  nor  that  she  noted 
his  presence  more  than  that  of  another.  She 
neither  avoided  nor  sought  his  glance,  and  it 
was  not  until  midnight  that  he  had  even  a  word 
alone  with  her. 

"I  am  going  to  sing,"  she  said,  turning  with 
232 


FRANK    AND    KATRINE    MEET 

a  pretty  smile  toward  a  group  in  which  he  was 
standing. 

In  a  minute  he  came  forward  and  led  her  to 
the  piano.  'The  Serenade,'"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  gleamed  through  the  long  lashes  as 
she  looked  away  from  him. 

"Ah,"  she  answered,  "I  seem  to  have  out 
grown  it!" 


XXIII 

AN    INTERRUPTED    CONFESSION 

ON  the  fourth  day,  because  of  a  nasty  twist 
at   polo,  the  doctor  ordered  Frank  to  rest. 
Coaching  and  golf  had  left  the  house  deserted  as 
he  lay  on  the  couch  in  the  second  hall,  thinking 
of  Katrine's  masterly  deftness  in  avoiding  him. 

"I  have  never  known  another  woman  who 
could  have  done  it  so  well,"  he  thought.  "She 
seems  to  have  neither  resentment  nor  remem 
brance.  It  is  as  though  the  whole  affair  had 
never  been.  I  wonder — 

The  noise  of  a  door  opening  at  the  far  end  of 
the  corridor  disturbed  his  reflections,  and  as 
though  walking  into  his  thought,  Katrine  came 
down  the  hall. 

She  wore  a  house-gown  of  pale  blue,  low  in 
the  neck,  with  long,  flowing  sleeves.  Under 
her  arm  she  carried  a  music -score  in  regular 
school-girl  fashion,  and  she  was  humming  to 
herself  as  she  came. 

234 


AN    INTERRUPTED    CONFESSION 

Frank  lay  perfectly  still;  his  eyes  closed  as  she 
approached  him. 

"I  am  not  going  to  bid  you  a  good-morning, 
seeing  that  I  am  obliged  by  doctor's  orders  to  do 
it  in  this  position.  It  doesn't  seem  respectful," 
he  explained. 

The  surprise,  the  dimples,  the  gay,  low  laugh 
seemed  such  a  part  of  her  as  she  paused  beside 
his  couch. 

"You  are  ill  ?"  she  asked.  "Or,"  with  a  twinkle 
of  the  wide  eyes,  "  didn't  you  want  to  go  on  the 
coaching-party  ?" 

"I  took  a  fall  at  polo  yesterday.  I  was  not 
at  dinner  last  night.  I  am  flattered  at  the  way 
you  have  dwelt  upon  my  absence." 

"I  dined  at  the  Crosbys'  or  I  might  have 
spent  a  sleepless  night  concerning  it.  There 
were  a  great  many  people  there.  Your  friend, 
Dermott  McDermott,  for  one.  He  is  coming 
here  to-day."  Her  face  was  illumined  by  the 
spirit  of  teasing  as  she  spoke.  "Only,"  she 
went  on,  with  a  sweet  and  instant  sympathy, 
"I  am  hoping  you  are  not  badly  hurt  or  suffer- 
ing." 

'There  is  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  the 
matter,  except  the  doctor.  He  is  all  broken  up 
over  the  accident,  and  says  I  must  lie  here  or  some- 

235 


KATRINE 


where  for  two  or  three  days  to  cure  a  wrench 
in  my  back  which  I  didn't  have." 

Katrine  laughed  as  she  turned  to  go. 

"I  was  intending  to  study  some,"  she  said, 
looking  down  at  her  music.  "Will  it  annoy 
you  ?" 

A  quick,  amused  smile  came  to  his  face  at  the 
question,  and  he  looked  up  with  eyes  full  of 
laughter  as  he  answered: 

"Certainly,  I  am  naturally  unappreciative  of 
music." 

"I  didn't  mean  that,"  Katrine  explained, 
smiling  back  at  him  as  she  went  along  the 
corridor. 

"Miss  Dulany!"  he  called. 

She  turned  toward  him,  her  face  waiting  and 
expectant. 

"As  the  German  girl  said  in  Rudder  Grange, 
'It  is  very  loneful  here." 

"You  mean,"  she  asked,  "that  you  would  like 
to  have  me  stay  with  you  ?" 

"Nobody  on  earth  could  have  stated  my  wish 
more  accurately,"  he  answered,  in  a  merry,  im 
personal  tone,  as  though  addressing  some  imagi 
nary  third  person. 

She  came  back  to  him,  drawing  a  low  wicker 
chair  near  the  couch  and  putting  her  music  on 

236 


AN    INTERRUPTED    CONFESSION 

the  floor  beside  her.  "I  shall  be  glad  to  stay  if 
you  want  me  to.  Shall  we  talk  ?"  And  here 
she  took  up  the  books  he  had  put  beside  him  for 
amusement.  "Balzac,  Daudet."  She  made  a 
little  disapproving  gesture. 

"You  do  not  care  for  them?"  he  asked. 

"They  are  not  for  me,  those  horrible  realist 
folk.  I  like  books  where  things  fall  as  they 
should  rather  than  as  they  do;  and  the  poetry 
where  beautiful  things  happen.  Things  as  they 
aren't  are  what  I  care  for  in  literature." 

He  laughed.  "We  won't  read,"  he  said,  "and 
7  sha'n't  talk.  You  must.  All  about  yourself, 
the  wonderful  things  that  you  have  been  living 
and  achieving.  You  will  tell  it  all  in  just  your 
own  way,  full  of  quick  pauses  and  sentences 
finished  by  funny  little  gestures." 

This  was  dangerous  walking,  and  he  felt  it  on 
the  instant. 

But  the  Irish  of  the  girl,  the  instinct  to  make  a 
story,  to  entertain,  came  at  his  demanding,  bring 
ing  the  old  gleam  back  to  her  eyes. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  deprecatingly.  "The  tale  of 
me!  It  would  bore  you,  would  it  not  ?  It  is  just 
full  of  Josef  and  work  and  the  Countess  and 
Father  Menalis  and  a  few  great  names,  and  then 
more  work,  with  a  little  more  Josef,"  she  added, 
16  237 


KATRINE 

with  a  smile.  And  then  dropping  into  the  warm, 
sweet,  intimate  tones  he  remembered  so  well,  she 
said,  simply,  "  It  was  hard,  but  glorious  in  a  way, 
too,"  she  added,  after  a  moment's  thinking, "  every 
morning  to  awaken  with  the  thought  of  something 
most  important  to  do;  work  which  one  loves,  les 
sons  with  this  great,  great  soul  who  knows  why 
art  is!  The  languages  for  one's  art,  the  fencing 
for  one's  art,  the  eating,  breathing,  dancing,  think 
ing,  living  for  one's  art!  With  Josef's  eternal 
'Think  it  over!  Think  it  over!'  and  Paris  with  all 
of  its  beautiful  past!  And  there  were  lonesome 
days,  too,  when  I  felt  I  could  never  do  it,  with 
sleepless  nights  of  discouragements.  Ah,"  she 
said,  the  scarlet  coming  to  her  cheeks,  "I  have 
lived !  It's  a  great  thing  to  say  that,  isn't  it  ?  But 
I  have  lived!  One  day,  I  remember,  Josef  was 
all  fussed  up.  It  was  a  horror  of  a  day,  and  he 
told  me  that  maybe  I  would  never  sing,  that  my 
temperament  might  not  do,  and  I  went  home  with 
thoughts  of  suicide  and  didn't  go  back  to  him  for 
nearly  a  week.  Then  he  sent  for  me.  'Where 
have  you  been?'  he  demanded,  fiercely.  'I  am 
going  to  give  it  all  up,'  I  answered.  And  he 
took  me  by  the  shoulders.  '  My  God !'  he  cried, 
'with  a  genius  like  yours,  could  you  give  it 
up  ?'  *  But  you  said  the  last  time  I  was  here—' 

238 


AN    INTERRUPTED    CONFESSION 

I  began.  'Bah!'  he  interrupted,  putting  his  hand 
on  my  shoulder,  'you  can't  believe  a  word  I  say. 
I  am  a  great  liar.5  And  we  both  cried  a  little, 
although,  even  then,  he  kept  telling  me  how  bad 
crying  was  for  the  voice,  and  we  did  some  Pag- 
liacci  together,  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened." 

"It  must  have  been  a  wonderful  life,"  Francis 
said,  a  great  appreciation  in  his  voice. 

"It  was;  I  miss  it  here — some,  although  peo 
ple  are  so  kind.  And  you  ?"  she  demanded. 
"Tell  me  about  yourself." 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell.  Things  are  just  the 
same  with  me.  I  suppose  they  will  never  be  much 
different." 

"Mrs.  Lennox  told  me  last  winter  that  you 
were  doing  quite  wonderful  things  in  business." 

He  smiled,  but  made  no  explanation.  "Are 
your  engagements  arranged  as  yet,  Katrine  ?"  he 
asked. 

"It  is  probable  that  I  shall  sing  in  St.  Peters 
burg  first.  It  is  what  I  want  most  if  I  sing  in 
public  next  winter  at  all." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"You  have  not  changed  so  much  as  I  had 
thought,"  he  said,  at  length. 

"  More  than  I  show,  I  am  afraid,"  she  answered. 

"Oh,"  he  returned,  "even  I  can  discern  some 
239 


KATRINE 

changes.  You  are  more,  if  I  wanted  to  be  subtly 
flattering,  I  should  say,  you  are  more  beautiful, 
more  of  the  world  in  appearance,  and  I  know 
what  the  Countess  meant  when  she  said  you 
were  becoming  'epic,  grand,  and  homicidal,'  or 
something  like  that." 

"How  horrible!"  she  laughed. 

"Not  at  all,  only  not  as  I  remembered  you." 
He  spoke  the  words  slowly,  against  his  will  and 
his  judgment,  and  in  defiance  of  taste  or  conduct, 
looking  up  as  he  did  so  into  eyes  which  from  their 
first  glance,  over  three  years  before  in  the  woods 
in  North  Carolina,  had  been  able  to  stir  him  as 
no  other  eyes  had  ever  done.  And  it  seemed  to 
him  as  though  in  that  look  all  conventions  were 
dropped  between  them.  "You  were  kind  to 
me  then,  Katrine." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  as  a  child  might 
have  done,  with  no  shrinking  in  her  glance, 
with  neither  anger  nor  shame.  "And  you?" 
she  asked,  wistfully.  "Were  you  very  kind  to 
me  ?" 

"I  was  not.  God!"  he  said,  "if  you  could 
only  know  how  I  have  suffered  for  the  way  I 
acted!  To  feel  such  shame  as  I  have  felt!  Oh," 
he  cried,  "nobody  on  earth  could  make  me  talk 
this  way  but  you !  There  was  always  between  us 

240 


AN    INTERRUPTED   CONFESSION 

a  curious  understanding,  wasn't  there,  Katrine, 
even  apart  from  the  other  ?"  He  finished  vaguely. 

"I  knew  you  would  suffer.  I  was  sorry  for 
that,"  she  answered,  gravely. 

"Were  you,  truly  ?  Were  you  big  enough  for 
that  ?" 

"Well,"  and  the  sad  smile  with  which  the 
Irish  so  often  speak  of  personal  grief  came  to  her 
lips,  "you  see,  I  loved  you.  And  when  one 
loves  one  wishes  for  happiness  for  the  one  be 
loved,  does  one  not  ?  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  was 
honestly  sorry  to  think  that  you  would  have  even 
a  regret.  I  would  have  taken  all  the  sorrow  if  I 
could." 

"You  loved  me  then?"  His  head  was  gone. 
He  remembered  only  the  sweetness  of  her  pres 
ence  and  the  nearness  of  her.  "You  did  love 
me  then,  Katrine  ?" 

She  rose  suddenly  as  though  to  leave  him. 

"Don't  go,"  he  said,  reaching  his  hand  toward 
her  with  pleading  in  his  tone. 

She  reseated  herself,  her  face  exquisitely  pale. 
"Ah,"  she  said,  "you  know  I  loved  you!  I  was 
so  young,  and  it  was  all  so  terrible  to  me!  Please 
God,  you  may  never  suffer  as  I  did!  I  have  lain 
awake  night  after  night  praying  to  die,  or  waking 
with  dread  at  the  knowledge  that  as  soon  as 

241 


KATRINE 

consciousness  came  the  horrible  pain  would  re 
turn  with  it,  and  there  came  the  resentment  to 
the  great  God  for  my  birth,  as  though  that  could 
make  any  real  difference.  But  it  was  good  for 
me.  The  very  best  thing  in  all  the  world. 
Nothing  else  could  ever  have  taught  me  as  it 
did." 

"Katrine!"  he  cried,  and,  the  doctor's  orders 
forgotten,  he  sat  up  and  leaned  toward  her, 
"believe  me,  I  have  waited  all  these  years  to 
see  you,  to  talk  with  you!  But  unless  two  peo 
ple  are  entirely  honest,  I  knew  the  thing  would 
be  impossible.  I  thought  you  would  forgive  me, 
would  understand  as  you  grew  older." 

"I  understood  then,"  she  interrupted.  "My 
whole  life  had  trained  me  to  understand.  I 
was  not  in  the  least  critical  of  you.  I  am  not 
now.  You  followed  your  birth  and  your  training. 
You  had  been  taught  no  self-control.  Women 
had  spoiled  you.  You  had  never  had  to  con 
sider  others.  I  want  to  be  perfectly  frank  with 
you  about  it  all.  I  never  deceived  you  in  word, 
tone,  or  look.  I  shall  not  begin  now.  You 
were  my  ideal  man  in  everything.  You  know," 
she  paused,  an  amused  smile  upon  her  lips  and 
her  lids  lowered,  "you  know  I  thought  Henry  of 
Agincourt,  Wolfe  Tone,  and  Robert  Bruce  must 

242 


AN    INTERRUPTED    CONFESSION 

have  been  like  you,  and  I  was  grateful  to  the  good 
God  for  letting  me  live  in  your  time  and  country." 

She  ceased  speaking,  and  her  eyes  rested  upon 
the  far-away  sea  with  the  remembering  tender 
ness  a  woman  might  give  to  an  old  plaything  of 
childhood  before  she  continued: 

"It  was  from  Josef,  of  course,  that  I  had  most 
help,  always  belittling  this  affair,  always  trying 
to  make  me  forget  in  work.  I  was  too  tired 
at  night  to  grieve;  I  had  to  sleep.  'Women/  he 
said,  'coddle  their  griefs!  They  revel  in  hope 
less  passion!  They  nurse  it!  Remember,'  he 
said, 'there  are  two  ways  to  forget:  weeping  and 
making  swings.'  Well,"  she  finished,  "he  taught 
me  to  make  swings." 

"And  you  have  forgotten?"  Francis  asked, 
standing  beside  her,  magnetic,  compelling,  taken 
out  of  himself. 

Memories  were  drawing  them  together.  Re 
membered  kisses,  words,  spoken  lips  to  lips, 
and  that  elemental  sweet  attraction  of  man  for 
woman,  which  should  be  ranked  with  the  other 
great  elemental  things  like  fire,  water,  earth,  and 
air.  Katrine  rose  also,  and  they  stood  looking 
into  each  other's  eyes. 

"No,"  she  answered,  quite  steadily,  "I  have 
not  forgotten.  I  never  shall  forget.  I  would 

243 


KATRINE 

give  my  life  to  feel  that  you  are  the  man  I  once 
believed  you  to  be,  the  man  I  believe  you  could 
have  been." 

"Will  you  be  frank  with  me,  Katrine?"  he 
demanded. 

"Have  I  ever  been  anything  else?"  she  ques 
tioned,  in  return. 

"You  have  avoided  me  since  you  came." 

"Yes,  only  I  hope  not  noticeably." 

"No,  it  was  well  done,  but  why  ?" 

"Can  you  ask?" 

"I  do  ask." 

"  I  did  not  want  ever  to  see  you  again  nor  to 
talk  to  you  as  we  are  talking  now." 

"Answer  me,  Katrine!"  he  cried,  bending 
toward  her.  "Answer  me!  Why  did  you  never 
want  to  see  me  again  ?" 

There  still  was  the  look  in  her  eyes  of  sweetest 
frankness  as  she  answered:  "There  were  many 
reasons  before  I  saw  you  that  first  night  why  I 
should  never  wish  to  see  you  again.  But  after 
that  there  was  only  one  —  one  —  one  that  filled 
my  mind.  I  am  afraid." 

"Afraid!"  he  repeated,  with  the  man's  look  of 
the  chase  in  his  eye,  "  afraid  of  what,  Katrine  ?" 

She  had  moved  by  the  fireplace,  and  with  a 
hand  on  the  chimney-shelf  turned  her  eyes  to 

244 


AN    INTERRUPTED   CONFESSION 

meet  his  own,  with  the  clear,  unafraid   look  in 
them  of  the  olden  times. 

"When  I  first  saw  you  here,  the  night  I  sang, 
I  became  a/raid  you  were  a  man  whom  I  had 
simply  overestimated  in  the  past  because  of  my 
youth.  I  have  avoided  you  ever  since  for  fear 
I  should  find  it  to  be  true.  I  am  afraid  you 
are  a  man  who  is  simply  'not  worth  while." 
The  words  were  spoken  softly,  even  with  a  cer 
tain  odd  tenderness,  but  they  struck  Francis 
Ravenel  like  a  blow  in  the  face,  and  he  set  his 
lips,  as  a  man  does  in  physical  suffering. 

"I  think  it  is  just,"  he  said,  at  length.  "I 
think  that  describes  me  as  I  am:  a  man  who  is 
not  worth  while.  Only,  you  see,  Katrine,  I  was 
not  prepared  to  hear  the  truth  from  you."  He 
grew  white  as  he  spoke.  "  In  all  of  your  letters 
you  spoke  so  divinely  of  that  old-time  love." 

For  an  instant  she  regarded  him  with  startled 
attention,  her  eyebrows  drawn  together,  both 
hands  brought  suddenly  to  her  throat. 

"My  letters,"  she  repeated,  "my  letters!" 
And  then,  her  quick  intuition  having  told  her 
all,  "  How  could  you  do  it  ?  Oh,  how  could  you 
do  it  ?"  she  cried,  the  tears  in  her  eyes  and  the 
quick  sobs  choking  her  speech.  "It  was  you 
who  sent  me  abroad  to  study!  It  is  you  to 

245 


KATRINE 

whom  I  am  indebted  for  all:  Josef,  the  Countess, 
my  voice!  Ah,  you  let  a  girl  write  her  heart 
out  to  you,  to  flatter  your—  Oh,  forgive  me!" 
choking  with  the  sobs  which  had  become  con 
tinuous,  "forgive  me!"  she  cried,  as  she  laid  her 
head  on  her  arms  by  the  corner  of  the  chimney. 
"Forgive  me!"  she  repeated.  "I  said  once  (you 
will  remember,  I  wrote  it,  too)  that  I  would  try 
never  to  criticise  you  by  word  or  thought.  I 
want  to  be  true  to  that,  even  now.  Only,"  she 
said,  pressing  her  hand  over  her  heart,  "I  hurt 
so!  The  pain  makes  me  say  things  I  would 
rather  not  say.  Oh,  I  wonder  if  another  man 
in  all  the  world  ever  hurt  a  woman's  pride  as 
you  have  hurt  mine!" 

"Katrine,"  Frank  said,  "God  knows  I  never 
intended  to  tell  you!  There  was  always  the 
thought  in  my  mind  that  you  should  never  know, 
but  you  hurt  me  so,  I  forgot.  Oh,  Katrine,  for 
give  me!" 

"I  am  grateful,"  she  interrupted,  in  her  hur 
ried,  generous  way,  "grateful  for  the  kind 
thought  for  me;  but  I  am  angry,  too,  so  angry 
that  I  don't  dare  trust  myself,"  she  smiled 
through  her  tears,  the  funny,  heart-breaking 
smile.  She  gathered  up  her  music.  "Good 
bye,"  she  said,  "I  shall  try  to  go  away  in  the 

246 


AN    INTERRUPTED    CONFESSION 

morning."  And  with  no  offer  of  handshaking 
she  passed  him,  and  he  heard  her  softly  close 
and  lock  the  door  of  her  sitting-room. 

He  knew  she  would  keep  her  word,  knew  that 
the  morning  would  take  her  from  him,  and  the 
pain  of  hurt  pride  and  wounded  love  goading  him 
on,  he  covered  the  distance  to  the  bolted  door. 

"Katrine!"  he  called. 

Within  he  heard  the  noise  of  sobbing,  of 
quick  breaths  choked  with  pain. 

"Katrine  Dulany!"  he  repeated,  with  tender 
ness. 

"Yes!"  she  answered  from  within. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

There  was  no  response. 

"I  must  speak  to  you,  Katrine." 

He  waited,  fearing  her  new  contempt,  until  the 
silence  became  unendurable. 

"Katrine,"  he  said,  "you  will  either  come  out 
or  I  will  come  in." 

There  was  another  silence  before  there  came, 
at  the  end  of  the  lower  corridor,  a  great  com 
motion  of  quick  orders  given  and  executed,  of 
luggage  being  placed,  and  through  it  all  a  low 
singing  as  of  one  much  at  home.  It  would  be 
an  awkward  situation,  he  thought,  for  the  ser 
vants  to  find  him  clamoring  at  Miss  Dulany's 

247 


KATRINE 


door,  and  as  he  moved  toward  the  window  the 
singing  grew  nearer,  breaking  into  a  loud  voice 
at  the  top  of  the  steps, 

"War  dogs  tattered  and  gray, 

Gnawing  a  naked  bone, 
Fighting  in  every  clime 

Every  cause  but  our  own," 

and  Dermott  the  jaunty,  the  extremely  ele 
gant,  in  black  riding-clothes,  with  the  jewelled 
crop  of  North  Carolina  days,  stood  in  the  after 
noon  sunlight  at  the  head  of  the  great  stairs. 

"Ah,  Ravenel,"  he  cried,  "I  have  been  stay 
ing  at  the  Crosbys',  and  heard  but  last  night 
from  Miss  Dulany  that  you  were  here!  I  ac 
cepted  the  invitation  Van  Rensselaer  hadn't  yet 
given  me  to  ride  over  and  stay  awhile.  I  am," 
and  here  he  had  the  superb  impudence  to  adjust 
an  eyeglass  for  a  complete  survey  of  Frank,  "I 
am  interested  in  your  doings  just  now,  Ravenel, 
very  much  interested,"  he  repeated,  with  a  smile. 


XXIV 

"I    WILL    TAKE    CARE    OF    YOU" 

ATTER  a  brief  exchange  of  incivilities  with 
Dermott,  Frank  went  to  his  own  room  with 
a  flushed  cheek,  a  kindling  eye,  and  something 
like  a  song  of  victory  singing  low  and  strong  in 
his  heart.  It  was  a  strange  mood  to  follow  such 
an  interview,  for  there  was  scarcely  a  sentence 
of  his  during  the  talk  with  Katrine  of  which  he 
was  not  ashamed.  The  lack  of  taste,  of  delicacy, 
the  rawness  of  his  conduct  came  back  to  him, 
producing  a  singular  sense  of  elation;  for  by  them 
he  realized  that  his  love  was  a  thing  stronger 
than  himself;  a  thing  which  carried  him  along 
with  it;  buffeted  him,  did  with  him  as  it  would, 
while  considered  conduct  and  the  well-turned 
phrase  stood  pushed  aside  to  watch  the  torrent 
as  it  passed. 

There  had  been  times  when  he  feared  that  his 
ancestry  of  inherited  self-indulgence  had  left 
him  without  the  ability  to  desire  anything  con- 

249 


KATRINE 

tinuously  or  over-masteringly,  feared  that  he 
was  over-raced,  with  no  grasp  nor  feeling  for 
the  jugular  vein  of  events.  These  had  been  un- 
worded  doubts  of  his  concerning  himself  in  the 
three  years  past.  But  after  the  talk  with  Katrine 
he  knew  himself  capable  of  great  love,  of  love 
which  was  stronger  than  himself,  and  the  new 
manhood  in  him  gloried  in  the  surrender. 

He  dressed  early,  hoping  to  have  a  word  with 
Katrine  before  the  other  guests  came  down, 
but  she  was  the  last  to  enter  the  drawing-room 
before  dinner  was  announced.  Standing  by  the 
doorway,  he  saw  her  coming  along  the  wide 
hall  alone.  She  wore  black,  unqualified  black, 
low  and  sleeveless.  Her  hair,  which  seemed 
blacker  than  the  gown,  was  worn  high,  not 
in  the  loose  curls  he  knew  so  well,  but  in  some 
statelier  manner,  with  an  old  jewelled  comb 
placed  like  a  coronet,  and  she  held  herself  more 
aloof  from  him  than  ever  before,  her  eyes  avoid 
ing  his  glance  and  her  cheeks  exquisitely  flushed. 

But  at  sight  of  Dermott  her  bearing  changed, 
and  Frank  saw  with  jealousy  that  she  went  quick 
ly  toward  the  Irishman,  holding  out  both  hands 
and  saying,  "  Dermott,"  in  a  voice  which  seemed 
to  have  a  sob  in  it  as  well  as  a  claim  for  pro 
tection. 

250 


"I    WILL   TAKE    CARE    OF    YOU" 

During  dinner  Ireland  was  easily  triumphant, 
for  while  Katrine  sat  at  Nicholas  van  Rensselaer's 
right,  Dermott  had  been  placed  on  her  other  side, 
and  Frank,  sitting  by  deaf  old  Mrs.  van  Rens- 
selaer,  had  abundant  time  to  mark  McDermott's 
gift  for  society.  "One  might  think  him  the 
host,"  Ravenel  thought,  critically,  noting  that 
the  laugh,  the  jokes,  the  gallantries  were  ever  in 
the  Irishman's  vicinity,  and  the  head  of  the  table 
was  easily  where  the  McDermott  sat. 

When  the  ladies  were  leaving,  Dermott  took 
the  situation  in  both  hands,  as  it  were,  by  rising 
with  them  and  turning  a  laughing  face  to  the 
men,  who  were  calling  his  name. 

"I'm  going  to  join  the  ladies  now,  if  they  will 
have  me !"  he  cried.  "  I  have  less  of  their  society 
than  I  like,  belonging,  as  I  do,  to  the  working- 
classes.  And  besides,"  he  waved  a  hand,  white 
and  beautifully  slender,  toward  them,  "I  know 
you  all,  unfortunately  well,  as  it  is!" 

A  chorus  of  friendly  insults  were  thrown  after 
him,  but  he  dropped  the  curtain  with  no  further 
word,  and  an  hour  later  Frank  encountered  him 
walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  terrace  in  the 
moonlight  with  Katrine. 

They  were  talking  earnestly,  McDermott  urg 
ing  something  which  Francis  was  glad  to  see 

251 


KATRINE 

Katrine  was  far  from  yielding.  Twice  he  saw 
her  shake  her  head  with  great  firmness,  and 
once,  as  they  came  near  him,  he  heard  her  say, 
"I  will  not,  Dermott,"  and,  knowing  the  girl 
as  he  did,  Frank  felt  that,  whatever  the  matter, 
it  was  settled  with  finality. 

Try  as  he  surely  did,  he  found  it  impossible  to 
have  a  word  alone  with  her  that  evening,  and 
the  next  morning  he  learned  from  the  servants 
that  her  luggage  was  to  be  taken  to  the  station 
the  following  day  at  an  early  hour. 

She  was  not  at  luncheon,  and  Frank  was 
meditating  on  the  possibility  of  leaving  with  her 
on  the  early  train,  when  a  note  was  brought  to 
him  by  her  maid. 

Would  you  care  to  walk  with  me  now  ?  [it  read] 
I  should  like  to  tell  you  something  before  I  leave. 

KATRINE  DULANY. 

This  was  surely  the  unexpected,  and  he  waited 
for  her  on  the  portico  with  the  feeling  that  there 
was  some  mistake,  and  that  the  maid  might  re 
appear  any  minute  to  ask  the  missive  back  again. 

But  Katrine  herself  came  around  the  corner 
from  the  greenhouses  and  called  to  him  from 
below.  She  wore  a  black  walking-skirt,  a  black 
leather  jacket,  and  a  three-cornered  black  hat, 

252 


"1    WILL   TAKE   CARE    OF    YOU" 

and  Frank  involuntarily  compared  this  very 
aristocratic-looking  young  person  with  the  little 
girl  in  the  short-waisted  frocks  he  had  known,  so 
many  years  ago,  it  seemed,  in  North  Carolina. 

In  silence  they  went  down  the  driveway  to  the 
beach  road,  along  the  path  to  the  cliffs.  There 
was  a  chill  in  the  sea-wind,  for  the  afternoon 
sun  gave  only  a  rose-red  glow,  but  little  warmth, 
as  they  stood  looking  at  the  crumpled  reflections 
in  the  water.  "It  is  almost  sunset,"  Frank 
began,  abruptly,  drawing  nearer  to  her.  "It 
might  almost  be  a  North  Carolina  sunset, 
mightn't  it  ?  I  don't  know,  Katrine,  what  you 
want  of  me,  but  I  want,  for  the  sake  of  that 
summer  full  of  sunsets  which  we  knew  to 
gether,  that  you  should  let  me  tell  my  story  and 
judge  me — finest  woman — that — ever — lived— 
judge  me  after  the  telling  as  it  may  seem  just  for 
you  to  do!" 

There  was  a  piteous  quiver  of  her  lips  as  her 
eyes  looked  bravely  into  his  as  she  nodded  an 
acquiescence. 

"When  I  left  you,  Katrine,  like  the  coward  I 
was,  that  dreadful  morning,  so  long  ago,  I 
wandered  around  like  an  Ishmaelite,  more 
wretched  than  I  believed  it  possible  for  a  human 
creature  to  be,  longing  for  you,  always,  day  and 
17  253 


KATRINE 


night,  waking  with  a  convulsion  of  pain  in  the 
gray  of  the  morning,  but  still  obstinately  deter 
mined  to  marry  none  but  some  one  whom  my 
forebears    would    have    considered    'suitable." 
He  smiled  at  the  word. 

"When  the  news  came  of  your  father's  death 
I  was  in  the  Canadian  woods.  I  started  home 
immediately;  I  had  no  fixed  plan,  except  to  see 
you,  to  help  you  in  some  way.  In  New  York 
I  had  a  telegram  saying  that  my  mother  was  very 
ill  at  Bar  Harbor.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but 
to  go  to  her,  of  course.  It  was  before  this  that 
she  had  sent  me  Nick  van  Rensselaer's  letter, 
and  the  idea  came  to  me  from  that,  that  /  might 
be  the  one  to  do  something  to  make  your  life  a 
bit  happier.  You  may  think  it  was  reparation 
for  the  suffering  I  had  caused  you,  but  it  was  not. 
I  couldn't  let  you  go  out  of  my  life.  In  this  way, 
I  reasoned,  I  could  keep  in  touch  with  you  for 
years.  When  I  stipulated  that  you  were  to  write 
once  a  fortnight,  I  had  no  idea  the  letters  would 
be  anything  but  simple  statements  of  your  daily 
life.  You  see,  I  forgot,"  he  smiled  again,  the 
charming,  whimsical  smile  that  seemed  so  much 
a  part  of  him,  "that  you  were  Irish  and  could 
do  nothing  impersonally. 

"Immediately  after  mother's  illness  came  the 
254 


"I    WILL   TAKE   CARE    OF    YOU" 

matter  of  the  railroad,  and" — he  hesitated— 
"  Dermott  McDermott.  You  see,  Katrine,  you 
had  stirred  something  in  my  nature  I  never  knew 
before — ambition!  That  was  part,  but  the 
desolation  that  followed  your  out-going  made 
action  necessary.  Well,  the  new  railroad  was 
to  be  constructed  through  the  plantation,  and  I 
worked  with  all  the  energy  I  could  to  forget. 
You  see  what  you  did  for  me,  Katrine!  And  at 
every  turn,  circumventing,  obstructing,  legislat 
ing  against  me,  urging  me  on  by  mental  friction, 
was  Dermott  McDermott.  Am  I  tiring  you  ?" 
he  asked,  tenderly. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  glad  to  know  how 
it  all  was.  Over  there  in  Paris,  when  I  was 
alone,  I  often  wondered." 

'The  interest  in  my  own  railroad  naturally 
led  to  interests  in  the  two  adjoining  ones,  and 
always,  always,  Katrine,  there  were  those  letters 
of  yours  urging  me  on  by  your  divine  belief  in 
me.  That  you  loved  me,  thought  of  me,  wished 
me  well,  prayed  for  me, — a  man  has  to  be  worse 
than  I  ever  was  to  fail  to  be  helped  by  that. 
And  your  loyalty,  the  very  selflessness  of  your 
love,  your  willingness  to  be  hurt  if  it  would  help 
me—  Katrine,"  he  interrupted  himself,  "there 
were  other  women  in  my  life,  but,  one  by  one, 

255 


KATRINE 


I  measured  them  up  to  the  standard  of  you,  and 
they  became  nothing.  I  remember  once,  at  the 
club,  they  brought  me  two  letters,  one  from  you 
and  one  from  another  woman.  It  was  the  one 
in  which  you  wrote,  */  have  not  forgotten,  I  do 
not  wish  to  forget.  I  want  to  make  of  myself  so 
great  a  woman  that  some  day  he  may  say,  with 
pride,  "Once  that  woman  loved  me,"  I  disliked 
to  know  that  your  white  letter  had  even  touched 
the  other  one,  and  that  night  the  man  I  hope 
to  make  of  myself  was  born.  If  there  be  any 
achievement  in  my  life  that  is  worth  while,  if  I 
ever  count  for  anything  in  the  world's  work,  it  is 
you  who  have  done  it,  you  and  the  letters  which 
you  blame  me  so  much  for  permitting  you  to 
write." 

She  turned  toward  him,  her  face  flushed  and 
divinely  illumined,  anger  forgotten.  "You  mean 
it  ?"  she  said. 

"As  God  hears,  it  is  the  truth." 

"Then,"  she  paused,  "I  am  happier  than  I 
thought  it  possible  I  should  ever  be  in  this  life!" 

"And  you  forgive  me?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive." 
'That  gives  me  courage  to  go  on,"  he  said. 
"Do   you    remember,"   he    put    his    hand   over 
hers  as  he  spoke,  and  they  both  went  back  in 

256 


"1    WILL   TAKE   CARE   OF    YOU" 

thought  to  the  time  he  had  laid  his  hand  over 
hers  on  the  fallen  tree,  the  night  of  their  first 
meeting,  "do  you  remember,  Katrine,  that 
when  an  alliance  is  to  be  arranged  for  a  great 
queen,  it  is  she  who  must  indicate  her  choice  and 
her  willingness.  You  have  become  that,  Katrine, 
a  great  queen!  I'm  asking,  with  more  humility 
in  my  heart  than  you  can  ever  know,  that  you 
choose — me!" 

As  she  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  were  incredulous. 
"  Don't  let  us  talk  of  such  a  thing,"  she  said, 
abruptly,  turning  her  small  hand  upward  to 
meet  his  in  a  friendly  clasp. 

"  But,  Katrine,  it  is  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  I  care  to  talk  about.  Oh,"  he  said,  "I 
know  how  hard  it  is  for  you,  that  you  are  going 
to  make  it  hard  for  me,  that  you  are  not  going 
to  believe  me,  nor  in  me.  But,  whether  you 
believe  it  or  not,  it  is  the  white  truth  I  tell  you, 
that  ever  since  the  first  night  I  saw  you  I  loved 
you,  and  wanted  you  for  my  wife." 

She  sat  on  the  brown  rocks,  her  knees  clasped 
in  her  slender  arms,  looking  through  the  sea-mist 
at  the  sun  going  down  behind  the  Magnolia 
Hills. 

"Don't  let  us  talk  of  it,"  she  said,  decisively; 
"  the  thing  is  utterly  impossible.  Tell  me  about 

257 


KATRINE 


yourself  instead:  the  new  railroad;  the  work;  and 
Dermott  McDermott."  He  turned,  looking  up 
at  her  curiously  before  answering. 

"The  last  four  years  of  my  life  have  contained 
something  overmuch  of  Dermott  McDermott— 
And  then,  the  animosity  gone  from  him,  "Ka 
trine,"  he  cried,  "in  Heaven's  name,  what  did  I 
ever  do  to  him  ?  He  seems  to  spend  his  time 
trying  to  circumvent  my  plans.  He  hates  me  so 
that  it  seems" — he  waited  for  an  appropriate 
word — "funny,"  he  ended,  with  a  laugh.  "I 
have  sometimes  thought  he  was  in  love  with  you. 
Is  he  in  love  with  you,  Katrine  ?" 

"Tell  me  about  the  railroad,"  she  said,  taking 
no  note  whatever  of  his  question.  "I  have 
heard  many  things  of  it." 

"Well,"  he  began,  "there  were  many  things  to 
hear.  One  by  one  the  men  who  had  pledged 
themselves  'went  back  on  me,'  as  the  Street 
phrase  is,  which  brought  out  all  the  obstinacy  in 
me.  I  built  it  myself.  It's  a  success,  and  it's 
lucky,"  he  ended,  "for  if  it  weren't  I  don't 
know  where  I  should  have  ended  in  a  money  way. 
I  was  desolate  and,  as  you  told  me  cheerfully  in 
one  of  the  letters  to  the  Great  Unknown,  'full 
of  ignorances  and  narrow-mindedness.'  There 
was  never  anything  better  came  to  me,  save  one, 

258 


"I    WILL   TAKE    CARE    OF    YOU" 

than  the  work.  I  think  it  has  made  me  better. 
I  hope  so." 

"It's  queer,  queer,  queer,  this  little  world, 
isn't  it?"  she  demanded,  abruptly. 

"It  is,  indeed." 

"Here  are  we,  together  again,  after  many 
years,  talking  about  ourselves,  just  as  we  did  in 
those  other  days." 

The  old  Katrine  was  beside  him,  with  the 
pleading,  explaining,  dependent  note  in  her 
voice,  the  same  rapid,  short  sentences,  the  same 
shy  look  which  was  ever  hers  when  doing  a 
kindness.  "I  must  tell  you  the  reason  I  wrote 
the  note.  Last  night  I  was  very  angry  at  you. 
I  forgot  Josef,  who  showed  me  that  anger  is  for 
fools  only.  Then  Dermott  came,  and  while  we 
were  walking  on  the  terrace  I  told  him  every 
thing:  that  I  owed  you  money;  that  I  wanted 
it  paid  at  once.  He  is  Madame  de  Nemours' 
executor.  She  left  me — not  a  great  fortune,  you 
know,  but  more  than  enough  to  repay  your  loan 
to  me.  So  much  is  simple.  But  there  is  more." 
She  hesitated  before  slipping  her  small,  bare 
hand  in  his  again.  "Dermott  thinks  he  knows 
something  which  will  cause  you  much  sorrow 
and  trouble.  He  is  not  certain.  He  is  waiting 
letters  from  France.  And  I  wanted  to  tell  you 

259 


KATRINE 

that  it  will  rest  almost  entirely  with  me  to  say 
what  shall  be  done  about  this  bad  news  which 
may  arrive.  And  I  want  you,  when  trouble 
comes,  to  remember  that  once  I  said  I  would 
come  from  the  end  of  the  earth  to  serve  you — 
Well,"  she  said,  the  look  of  unreckoning,  honest, 
boyish  loyalty  in  her  eyes,  "  I  will  keep  my  word. 
You  must  not  worry;  I  will  take  care  of  you." 
It  was  like  a  mother's  promise  to  protect  a  child, 
and,  save  for  the  sweet  confidence  in  her  own 
powers,  Frank,  not  understanding,  could  have 
laughed  aloud.  "  I  want  you  to  think  of  this 
to-night,  when  Dermott  talks  to  you — will  you  ?— 
and  to  remember  that  the  matter  is  far  from 
proven.  Madame  de  Nemours  herself  did  not 
believe  it." 

"  Katrine,"  he  cried,  impressed  by  her  serious 
face  and  tone,  "what  is  this  mysterious  trouble 
that  is  coming  to  me  ?  Can't  you  tell  me  ?" 

"I  have  thought  of  that,  but  I  believe  that 
you  would  be  happier  in  the  future  to  know 
that  we  had  never  discussed  it  together.  I  know 
7  should.  It's  all  so  foolish,"  she  ended. 

"You  are  really  going  to-morrow,  Katrine?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

260 


"1    WILL   TAKE   CARE   OF    YOU" 

"It  is  better." 

"For  you?" 

"For  both  of  us." 

"Ah,  Katrine,  why?  You  are  a  great  enough 
woman  to  forgive.  Can't  you  do  it  ?  You  have 
done  so  much  already." 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  answered.  "I  suffered  too 
much.  It  was  too  horrible.  Only,"  and  she 
touched  his  shoulder  gently,  "you  are  not  to 
think  that  I  don't  care  for  you.  It  mayn't  be 
in  just  the  way  that  I  used  to  do;  but  nobody 
else  could  ever  be  to  me  what  you  have  been. 
I  don't  believe  a  woman,  a  real  woman,  ever 
loves  twice  in  her  life,  do  you  ?"  She  asked 
the  question  with  the  manner  distinctively  her 
own,  of  comradeship,  of  wanting  to  touch  souls 
even  on  this  question  most  vital  to  them  both. 

"I  hope  it's  true  of  you,  Katrine." 

The  gray  sea  broke  in  white  lines  on  the  shore 
beneath  them;  the  gulls  uttered  shrill,  clattering 
cries  above  their  heads,  before  Katrine  rose. 

"We  must  be  going — on!"  she  said,  looking 
seaward,  her  hands  clasped  in  front  of  her, 
her  face  saddened  and  white. 

"  But,  Katrine,"  he  cried,  "look  at  me,  Katrine! 
Nothing  has  been  settled  between  us.  I  have 
asked  you  to  marry  me.  You  say  you  will  not. 

261 


KATRINE 


You  tell  me  you  still  care  some  little  for  me. 
It's  a  foolish  situation.  I  was  a  cad,  an  ignorant 
and  colossally  selfish  cad,  but  I  am  humbled, 
and  oh,  I  want  you  so!" 

There  was  nothing  but  kindness  and  affection 
in  her  face  as  she  stood  with  appealing  eyes 
looking  up  at  him. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  what  I  believe 
to  be  the  truth  ?" 

"Yes;  but,  Katrine,  don't  make  it  hurt  too 
much,"  he  said. 

"I  think,"  she  spoke  the  words  softly,  "if  I 
had  gone  out  of  your  life,  had  had  no  voice,  had 
not  succeeded,  if  the  world  had  not  spoken  my 
name  to  you,  you  would  have  forgotten  me  in  a 
year.  I  believe  it  is  not  Katrine  Dulany,  the 
daughter  of  your  Irish  overseer,  whom  you  love, 
but  La  Dulany,  who  happens  to  have  a  gift,  the 
adopted  daughter  of  the  Countess  de  Nemours, 
the  woman  whom  you  have  heard  the  Due  de 
Launay  wishes  to  marry!" 

"Oh,  Katrine!" 

"I  don't  want  to  hurt  you!  indeed,  indeed  I 
don't,"  she  repeated.  "I  wanted  you  to  know 
exactly  what  I  think.  Ah,"  she  cried,  "be  fair! 
Do  you  blame  me  ?" 

"No,"  he  answered.  "I  blame  you  for  noth- 
262 


"I    WILL    TAKE    CARE    OF    YOU" 

ing;  but  it  is  not  true!  I  love  the  soul  of  you, 
Katrine.  And  there  has  been  between  us  love, 
love  stronger  than  ourselves  or  our  foolish 
prejudices.  I  believe  that  neither  of  us  can 
forget,  that  something  stronger  than  your  will 
or  mine  draws  us  together.  I  will  not  accept 
your  refusal.  And  you  will  not  forget  me!  I 
mean  to  see  to  it  that  you  shall  not." 

They  returned  to  the  house,  through  the  incom 
ing  sea  fog,  in  silence.  At  the  foot  of  the  side- 
stair  they  shook  hands  and  said  "  good-bye  "  softly. 

He  had  not  expected  to  see  her  again  in  the 
evening.  But  here  he  failed  to  understand  that 
the  excitement  under  which  she  was  laboring 
made  either  solitude  or  inaction  unendurable. 
She  was  among  the  first  to  come  down  to  dinner, 
and  never,  he  reviewed  the  entire  past  before  he 
came  to  the  conclusion,  had  he  seen  her  more 
beautiful.  She  wore  pink,  modish  in  the  ex 
treme,  with  many  jewels — -he  recalled  that  he 
had  never  before  seen  her  wear  jewels — and  she 
seemed  in  sky-scraping  spirits,  her  eyes  alight 
with  fire  and  vivacity;  and  at  the  table  he  could 
hear  the  droll  tones  of  her  voice  before  the  laugh 
ter  came;  and  altogether  she  went  far  toward 
driving  him  daft  by  an  apparent  gayety  at  parting 
with  him  forever. 

263 


KATRINE 

Immediately  after  the  ladies  left  the  table 
Dermott  touched  Frank  lightly  on  the  arm. 
"Could  I  have  a  few  words  with  you  in  the  gun 
room  ?"  he  asked.  "It's  the  place  where  we 
shall  be  the  least  likely  to  be  interrupted." 

Ravenel  followed  him,  after  a  nod  of  acquies 
cence,  and  stood  on  one  side  of  a  great  chimney, 
which  was  filled  with  glowing  logs,  waiting  for 
the  Irishman  to  speak.  He  was  entirely  unpre 
pared,  however,  for  the  consideration,  even  the 
impersonal  kindness  in  Dermott's  voice  as  he 
said,  "I'm  afraid  I'm  letting  you  in  for  a  pretty 
bad  time,  Ravenel." 

Frank  bowed.  Even  McDermott  was  forced 
to  admire  his  serene  manner. 

"Miss  Dulany  told  me  last  night  of  her  obliga 
tion  to  you." 

Frank  waited  with  no  change  of  expression  for 
Dermott  to  proceed. 

"She  said  she  desired  her  money  obligation  to 
be  paid  immediately." 

"It  is  an  affair  of  small  moment,"  Frank  an 
swered. 

"You  know,  perhaps,  that  my  cousin,  Ma 
dame  de  Nemours,  left  her  property  to  Miss 
Dulany  ?" 

"I  heard  of  it  at  the  time,"  Frank  returned. 
264 


"I    WILL   TAKE    CARE   OF   YOU" 

"And  named  me  as  executor,"  Dermott  ex 
plained. 

"A  fact  which  escaped  me,"  Ravenel  answered, 
suavely. 

"  It  has  taken  some  time  to  settle  the  estate," 
Dermott  continued,  "because  of  a  certain  claim 
which,  if  proven,  makes  the  estate  a  very  valuable 
one.  This  claim  nearly  concerns  you." 

"Go  on,"  Frank  said,  briefly,  discourteously 
as  well. 

"I  do  not  know,"  Dermott  continued,  "wheth 
er  you  are  aware  or  not  that  your  father  made 
an  earlier  marriage  than  the  one  \vith  your  mother. " 

An  ominous  chill  passed  over  Frank,  though 
he  answered,  bravely,  "I  was  not." 

"When  he  was  living  at  Tours  he  married  a 
girl,  an  Irish  girl,  who  ran  away  from  a  convent 
to  become  his  wife.  She  was  but  sixteen  at  the 
time.  Her  name  was  Patricia  McDermott,  my 
cousin,  afterward  the  Countess  de  Nemours." 

Frank  continued  to  listen,  but,  although  his 
eyes  held  keen  apprehension  and  his  face  was 
white,  he  showed  a  fine  courage. 

"My  uncle,  her  father,  was  an  ardent  Roman 
Catholic,"  Dermott  explained,  "a  gloomy,  over 
fed,  and  melancholy  man  who  never  forgave  his 
daughter.  In  a  short  time  your  father  seemed 

265 


KATRINE 

to  have"— Dermott  coughed— "  tired  of  the  af 
fair,"  he  explained,  lightly,  "  and,  his  studies  being 
finished,  he  left  his  wife  and  child  and  returned 
to  America.  I  do  not  desire  to  dwell  on  the 
misery  of  my  cousin  and  her  child.  She  was 
cared  for  by  some  poor  folks;  my  uncle  gave  her 
a  death-bed  forgiveness;  the  child  died,  and  in 
process  of  time  she  married  the  Count  de 
Nemours.  After  the  death  of  her  second  hus 
band,  she  gave  me  full  charge  of  her  affairs, 
and  among  her  papers  I  found  documents  re 
lating  to  this  early  marriage.  The  year  before 
your  father's  death  I  met  him,  quite  by  accident, 
in  New  York.  The  name  was  familiar  to  me. 
I  asked  questions,  found  he  was  married  and 
had  a  son,  yourself. 

"  Mr.  Ravenel,"  Dermott  changed  his  tone  of 
recital  to  a  more  intimate  one,  "to  speak  truth, 
the  matter  is  inexplicable  to  me.  Your  father 
was  a  brilliant  man;  a  man  of  the  world  who,  if 
he  had  no  religious  scruples  on  the  subject  of 
bigamy,  must  have  had  respect  for  law.  Why," 
Dermott  rose  from  the  table  by  which  he  had 
been  sitting,  and  stood  directly  facing  Frank— 
"why  he  should  have  made  a  second  marriage, 
with  a  wife  and  child  living  in  France,  is  beyond 
explanation." 

266 


"I    WILL    TAKE    CARE    OF   YOU" 

Frank  drew  back,  his  face  colorless,  his  lips 
drawn,  and,  as  the  horrid  import  of  the  news 
became  clear,  "Ah,  God!"  he  whispered;  and 
then,  with  memory  of  his  father  uppermost,  "  It's 
a  damned  lie!"  he  cried. 

"It  may  be,"  Dermott  returned,  calmly. 
"  Most  things  are  open  to  that  interpretation. 
I'm  afraid,  however,  you  will  have  difficulty  in 
proving  it  so.  I  have  had  the  certificates  of  the 
marriage  and  of  the  birth  of  the  child  for  a  long 
time,  but  international  law  requires  much.  I 
have  living  witnesses.  In  Carolina,  in  looking 
up  the  matter,"  he  spoke  the  word  vaguely,  "I 
failed  to  find  anything  which  would  disprove 
the  points  I  have  just  placed  before  you.  I  was 
awaiting  some  letters  from  France  before  ex 
plaining  the  case  to  you,  when  Katrine  demand 
ed  that  her  debt  to  you  be  paid  immediately. 
There  are  many  reasons  why  I  do  not  wish  to 
pay  that  debt  now,  reasons  which  we,  as  men, 
can  understand.  She  might  not  comprehend 
them,  and  she  certainly  would  not  give  the  idea 
a  straw's  weight  if  she  did,  having  once  made 
up  her  mind.  Now  I'm  going  to  tell  her  that 
I've  paid  her  debt,  Mr.  Ravenel.  It  will  com 
fort  her.  But  with  the  matter  which  I  have  re 
vealed  to  you  still  a  little  unsettled,  and  the 

267 


KATRINE 

markets  in  the  state  they  are  in,  I  cannot  do  my 
duty  as  executor  and  fulfil  her  desires  im 
mediately.  After  all,  it  is  a  small  amount,  and 
if  my  personal  check —  He  waited,  and  Rave- 
nel  spoke. 

"Mr.  McDermott,  Miss  Dulany's  indebted 
ness  to  me  is  too  slight  to  consider.  About  this 
other  terrible  business,  I  shall  search  my  father's 
papers!  It  is  necessary  that  I  do  everything  I 
can  to  protect  my  mother's  name  as  well  as  my 
own." 

"That's  reason,"  Dermott  agreed. 

"As  to  Miss  Dulany— " 

Both  men  turned,  for  at  the  far  end  of  the  room 
Katrine  stood,  under  the  swinging  light  of  a 
Japanese  lamp,  regarding  them. 

She  came  rapidly  toward  them,  her  head  a 
little  forward,  her  cheeks  scarlet,  and  a  gleam  of 
temper  in  her  eyes,  which  Frank  had  never  seen, 
but  with  which  Dermott  was  not  unfamiliar,  and 
took  a  place  between  them. 

"See!"  she  cried,  smiling,  and  there  was  never 
another  woman  in  all  the  world  who  had  the  ap 
pealing  smile  of  Katrine  Dulany.  "Don't  let  us 
make  this  all  so  dreadful.  There  is  just  some 
mistake,"  she  said,  with  a  gesture  of  impatience; 
and  from  here  she  went  on  with  a  certain  terrify- 

268 


"I    WILL    TAKE    CARE    OF    YOU" 

ing  ability,  peculiarly  her  own,  to  come  directly 
to  a  point. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  gesture  including  them 
both,  "you've  done  what  I  asked  you  not  to  do, 
Dermott!"  she  said.  "You've  claimed  a  yet 
unproven  thing.  I'm  tired  of  the  whole  of  it. 
It  is  better  that  we  three  should  understand  one 
another  altogether  and  not  go  talking  by  twos," 
and  she  faced  Dermott  as  she  turned.  "You 
may  prove  everything,  and  I'll  never  believe  a 
word  of  it!  Give  me  Ravenel,  and  I'll  return  it 
to  those  to  whom  it  belongs.  It's  his,"  indi 
cating  Frank,  "and  his  mother's,  and  they  shall 
keep  it,  no  matter  what  you  prove!  As  for 
me!"  she  laughed,  giving  herself  a  shake  as  a 
bird  does.  "Hark!"  she  cried,  raising  one  finger. 
Softly,  as  a  bird  calls  to  the  purpling  east  at 
dawn,  she  took  a  note,  listening  intently,  going 
up,  up,  up,  till  the  tone,  a  mere  thread  of  glad 
ness,  reached  high  E,  where  it  swelled,  rounder 
and  fuller,  until  it  seemed  to  fill  all  space,  de 
scending  in  a  sparkling  shower  of  chromatics  to 
lower  G. 

"Did  you  mark  that?"  she  cried,  in  a  defiant 

bit  of  appreciation  of  herself.     "What  do  I  need 

with  money  ?     I  can  go  out  on  the  streets  and 

come  back  with  hands  full."     And  before  they 

18  269 


KATRINE 


could  answer  she  had  disappeared  through  one 
of  the  long  windows  of  the  piazza. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  that,  now?"  de 
manded  Dermott  of  Frank,  with  a  touch  of  the 
brogue,  as  they  stood  together  in  some  bewilder 
ment,  looking  after  her. 


XXV 

KATRINE    IN    NEW    YORK 

'""THE  following  morning,  in  a  drizzling  rain  and 
1  wind  from  the  east,  Dermott  McDermott 
stood  beside  Katrine  at  the  station,  arranging  for 
her  comfort,  directing  her  maid,  and  wiring  Nora 
in  New  York,  lest  she  should  be  unprepared  for 
this  hastily  determined  return  to  the  city. 

"I  was  sorry  for  Ravenel  last  night,  Katrine,*' 
he  said,  with  an  earnest  sympathy  in  his  tone. 
"I  think  I  have  never  known  a  man  who  drew 
me  to  him  less;  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  matter.  I  was  sorry  for  him,"  he  repeated. 
"Isn't  it  a  dreadful  performance,  this  tragedy  of 
life  ?"  he  demanded,  looking  down  at  her  in 
tently,  unmindful  of  noise  of  luggage  or  the  shrill 
voices  of  the  passers  to  and  fro.  "  But  the  thing 
to  do,"  he  cried,  straightening  himself  and  rais 
ing  his  chest,  "is  to  show  a  brave  front  always! 
Never  let  the  world  know  you're  downed  in  any 
thing.  So  carry  all  off  with  a  laugh  and  a  song. 

271 


KATRINE 


Plant  flowers  on  the  graves,  flowers  for  the  world 
to  see,  and  for  the  great  Power  above  as  well, 
that  He  may  know  we  are  not  whining  —  that 
we're  down  here  doing  the  best  we  can." 

They  stood,  hands  clasped,  on  the  platform  as 
the  train  drew  in,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes, 
and  Katrine's  lips  trembled  as  she  spoke  the 
word  "good-bye." 

"Sure  it's  not  'good-bye'  at  all,"  Dermott 
cried,  changing  his  mood  to  cheer  her—  "not 
'good-bye'  at  all!  I'll  be  in  town  in  a  day  or  two 
bothering  you  with  my  visits  and  advice.  And 
if  anything  definite  turns  up  about  the  Ravenel 
matter  I'll  write  you.  Do  you  know,  Katrine,  I 
felt  so  sorry  for  him  last  night  I'm  almost  hoping 
he  can  disprove  everything." 

And  Katrine  found,  as  the  train  pulled  out, 
that  there  was  another  who  had  not  been  un 
mindful  of  her  going,  for  Frank's  man  appeared 
from  nowhere,  touched  his  hat  with  accented 
deference,  gave  her  a  letter  in  silence,  and  dis 
appeared  into  the  blankness  from  which  he 
came.  But  for  the  envelope  she  held,  Katrine 
might  have  believed  him  a  vision  that  had 
passed. 

There  was  no  formal  beginning.  The  letter 
ran: 

272 


KATRINE    IN    NEW    YORK 

I  shall  not  see  you  again  until  I  know  the  truth. 
You  will  understand  the  reasons.  I  am  going  to 
Ravenel  to-day  to  make  some  investigations.  Of  the 
outcome  of  these  I  cannot  speak. 

In  all  of  this  there  is  one  thing  sure.  Everything 
may  be  changed  in  my  life  but  my  love  for  you. 

F.  R. 

It  was  still  early  in  October  when  Katrine  re 
turned  to  New  York  and  to  Nora,  who  was  wait 
ing  for  her  in  an  old-fashioned  apartment  just 
off  Washington  Square.  The  Irishwoman  had 
driven  a  thrifty  bargain  for  the  place,  and  in  a 
well-contented  spirit  was  setting  up  the  house 
hold  goods. 

There  was  a  great  porch  at  the  rear  of  the 
rooms,  with  locust-trees  in  the  yard  below,  and 
Nora  had  already  put  flowers  in  pots  about  it,  to 
make  a  "nearly  garden,"  she  explained.  Here, 
for  over  a  month,  Katrine  enjoyed  the  home- 
making;  the  arranging  of  her  Paris  belongings; 
the  transformation  of  the  shabby  surroundings 
into  a  delightful  spot  of  restful  color  and  peace. 

The  day  after  her  arrival  from  the  Van  Rens- 
selaer's,  Nora  announced,  with  a  twinkle  in  her 
eye,  that  there  was  a  gentleman  below  whom  she 
had  told  to  come  right  up,  and  Barney  O'Grady 
entered  before  his  mother  had  ceased  speaking. 

273 


KATRINE 

Katrine  greeted  him  with  affectionate  remem 
brance,  smiling  as  she  did  so  at  the  change  in  this 
boy  whom  she  had  helped  to  New  York.  He  was 
flashily  dressed,  after  the  style  of  a  college  fresh 
man,  and  conversed,  as  she  discovered,  in  a  lan 
guage  known  only  to  the  New  York  newspaper 
man,  who,  as  some  one  told  her  later,  has  a  "  slan 
guage"  all  his  own. 

No  one  could  have  been  more  helpful  than  he, 
in  their  present  situation,  however,  and  Katrine 
learned  anew  day  by  day  the  gratitude  he  cher 
ished  toward  her  for  the  help  given  so  long  be 
fore. 

Slender  and  tall,  with  red  face  and  high  cheek 
bones,  thin  nose  turned  upward,  showing  the  in 
side  of  the  nostril,  and  the  lines  like  a  parenthesis 
mark  on  either  side  of  the  mouth,  he  scanned  the 
world  alertly  with  his  pale-blue  eyes,  scenting 
news  like  a  human  hunter-dog. 

But  he  had  many  of  the  faults  of  his  race,  for 
with  fine  insight  and  ability  to  forecast  events, 
he  fell  short  in  the  execution  of  his  brave  schemes; 
failed  to  keep  the  respect  of  others  after  he  had 
won  it;  accepted  insufficient  proof  on  all  sub 
jects,  relying  dangerously  on  a  much-vaunted  in 
tuition,  a  fault  in  him  which  changed  Katrine's 
whole  life.  In  a  way,  he  had  become  a  power  in 

274 


KATRINE    IN    NEW    YORK 

the  newspaper  world,  and  had,  as  she  discovered, 
a  knowledge  of  the  private  affairs  of  prominent 
people  which  seemed  supernatural;  and  it  was  a 
habit  of  his  to  look  over  the  names  in  a  news 
paper,  remarking  cheerfully  at  intervals: 

'There's  another  man  that  I  could  put  in 
jail." 

But  there  was  an  unworded  matter  which  gave 
Katrine  a  kinder  feeling  toward  Barney  than 
either  her  love  for  Nora  or  any  past  acquaint 
ance  between  them  might  have  done,  and  this 
was  his  admiration  for  Frank  Ravenel. 

If  Barney  had  any  knowledge,  directly,  through 
Nora,  or  indirectly  through  his  intuition,  of  the 
interwovenness  of  Katrine's  life  with  Ravenel's, 
he  had  the  taste  and  the  ability  to  conceal  it. 

But  his  literary  temperament  got  the  better  of 
him  where  Katrine  was  concerned,  and  before  a 
week  was  past  he  set  up  a  hopeless  passion  for 
her,  as  she  laughingly  put  it. 

"He'd  die  for  you,  Miss  Katrine,"  Nora  ex 
plained  one  evening. 

"Sure  I  don't  doubt  it  for  a  minute,  if  there 
were  enough  people  by  to  see  him  do  it,"  Katrine 
answered,  with  Irish  comprehension. 

With  this  over  -  informed  person,  her  little 
French  maid,  whom  Barney  called  "Her  Irre- 

275 


KATRINE 

sponsible  Frenchiness,"  and  Nora,  Katrine  spent 
a  busy  month  trying  to  forget  her  meeting  with 
Frank  entirely.  In  the  daytime  she  could  do  this, 
but  at  night  she  wondered  much  concerning  him 
—if  he  were  back  at  Ravenel;  if  Dermott  had 
proceeded  in  the  bitter  business  concerning  the 
early  marriage,  with  many  plans  for  readjust 
ments  in  case  he  had  done  so. 

Through  Barney,  who  still  clung  to  many 
of  his  North  Carolina  associates,  Katrine  had 
news  of  Frank's  return  to  Ravenel  immediately 
after  the  Van  Rensselaer  visit,  and  of  a  sudden 
journey  to  France  following  close  upon  the  heels 
of  his  return. 

Early  in  November — it  was  the  afternoon  of 
the  first  snowfall  —  delayed  letters  came  from 
Josef  containing  the  St.  Petersburg  contracts  for 
her  signature.  She  was  to  have  her  premiere  in 
May,  and  Josef  wrote  that  he  would  go  up  from 
Paris  with  her. 

This  arrangement  was  widely  published  at  the 
time  in  London  and  Paris,  so  that  the  claim 
afterward  made  that  Katrine's  Metropolitan  en 
gagement  was  cancelled  because  of  her  divine 
forgetfulness  the  night  she  was  to  sing  for  Melba 
can  be  proven  utterly  untrue. 

In  the  mail  containing  the  contracts  came  other 
276 


KATRINE    IN    NEW    YORK 

letters,  the  most  important  being  one  from  Der- 
mott,  stating  as  an  incident  that  her  debt  to  Frank 
had  been  cancelled,  and  as  a  matter  of  pro 
nounced  importance  that  he  was  wearing  a  new 
green  tie.  He  ended  by  saying  that  he  would 
give  an  account  of  his  stewardship  on  January  ist, 
and  that  he  hoped  he  had  done  his  duty  to  her  and 
his  clearly  remembered  cousin.  He  wrote  no 
word  of  Ravenel,  neither  of  developments  nor 
compromises,  and  Katrine  concluded  not  un 
naturally  that  the  matter  had  been  allowed  to 
rest. 

But  she  reckoned  without  two  important  per 
sons  in  this  conclusion.  The  first  was  McDer- 
mott,  who,  as  he  put  it,  "wasn't  going  to  betray 
a  trust  because  a  girl  flouted  him  a  bit";  and  the 
second,  Ravenel  himself,  who  was  showing  a  fine 
honor  and  great  courage  in  the  quiet,  unflagging 
search  he  was  making  for  the  truth. 

She  saw  McDermott  but  twice  during  this 
time,  though  he  sent  almost  daily  messages  or 
tokens  of  his  remembrance.  During  his  first 
visit  he  mentioned,  casually,  however,  the  dis 
turbed  condition  of  Wall  Street,  and  that  he  was 
watching  the  money  situation  day  and  night  with 
little  time  for  visiting. 

His  second  coming  was  a  fortnight  later.  In 
277 


KATRINE 


the  afternoon  Katrine  had  been  reading  by  the 
fire  an  old  Italian  tale  of  love  and  death.  It 
seemed  hardly  an  epoch-making  experience  in 
her  life,  and  yet  there  had  come  to  her,  like  the 
letting  in  of  sudden  light,  the  knowledge  that 
love  was  beyond  and  above  reason,  as  religion 
is,  as  life  itself,  of  which  love  is  the  cause.  She 
had  worked  to  forget,  had  been  taught  how  to 
forget,  yet  she  knew  she  had  not  forgotten,  and 
that  her  listlessness  since  her  visit  to  Mrs.  Van 
Rensselaer  had  been  chiefly  worry  lest  trouble 
should  come  to  Frank. 

At  five  Nora  brought  in  the  tea-things,  and 
Katrine  closed  the  book  over  which  she  had 
been  dreaming. 

"Nora,"  she  began,  for  the  Irishwoman  was 
like  a  mother  to  her,  "did  you  ever  forget  your 
first  love  ?" 

"I  did  worse  than  that,  I  married  him.  Bar 
ney's  the  result,"  was  the  answer. 

"  But  you  never  could  have  married  any  one 
else  but  Dennis,  could  you  ?"  Katrine  persisted. 

"Niver!"  the  little  old  woman  returned,  with 
ready  decision.  "  He  bate  me,  Miss  Katrine,  and 
misprized  me,  and  came  and  wint  as  he  listed, 
and  finally  left  me  altogether;  but  I  could  never 
have  chose  another.  It's  the  way  with  Irish- 

278 


KATRINE    IN    NEW    YORK 

women,  that!  The  drame  of  it  niver  comes  but 
the  wance — niver  but  the  wance,"  she  repeated, 
looking  into  the  fire,  but  seeing  the  old  sea-wall 
at  Killybegs,  with  flowers  on  top  of  it,  against 
a  cloudy  sky,  and  a  sailor  boy  with  bold  black 
eyes  calling  to  her  from  the  boats. 

And  Katrine,  her  tea  forgotten,  repeated,  "  It's 
that  way  with  Irishwomen  —  the  dream  never 
comes  but  once." 

At  sunset  the  bitter  wind  which  had  been 
blowing  all  day  long  turned  into  a  gale,  a  rascal 
wind,  which  slapped  a  handful  of  sleet  and  ice, 
hard  as  glass,  on  one  side  of  your  face,  and  scur 
ried  round  the  corner  to  come  back  and  strike 
harder  from  an  entirely  different  direction. 

The  storm  must  have  suited  his  mood  in  some 
way,  for  Dermott  McDermott  chose  to  walk 
through  it,  arriving  at  Katrine's  door  breathless 
and  flushed,  the  fur  of  his  coat  gleaming  with  ice 
and  snow.  Here  he  found  a  glowing  fire,  with 
the  old  mahogany  settle  on  one  side  and  the 
green  grandmother's  chair  on  the  other;  the  dull 
glow  of  old  tapestry;  flowers;  the  odor  of  mign 
onette;  and  Katrine  herself,  in  a  scarlet  gown, 
delighted  as  a  child  at  his  coming.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  clatter  and  roaring  and  discomfort  with 
out  which  accentuated  the  peace  and  happiness 

279 


KATRINE 

within,  and  led  him,  more  than  he  knew,  to  that 
precipitancy  of  conduct  which  ended  disastrous 
ly  for  him.  As  he  sat  in  the  great  green  chair 
Katrine  looked  up  at  him  from  the  settle,  and 
something  in  the  intensity  of  his  gaze  made  her 
make  a  quick  gesture  of  warning  to  him  before 
he  spoke. 

"  Will  you  marry  me,  Katrine  ?" 

She  looked  again  quickly,  to  see  if  he  could  be 
jesting.  In  North  Carolina  it  was  his  custom 
to  ask  her  every  day;  but  his  sudden  pallor  and 
the  choked  voice  told  how  terribly  he  was  in 
earnest. 

She  answered,  with  a  note  of  despair  in  her 
voice,  "I  wish  with  all  my  heart  I  could,  Der- 
mott." 

"And  why  not  ?"  he  asked. 

"It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you.  There  is  some 
one  else,"  she  explained,  bravely,  a  great  wave 
of  coloring  coming  to  her  face  at  the  confession. 

"Whom  ye  will  marry?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  think  not.  It  seems 
as  if  I  could  almost  say  I  hope  not." 

"Dear,"  Dermott  said,  "I've  loved  you — al 
ways  —  ever  since  I've  known  you.  When  you 
were  just  a  wee  bit  girl  in  New  York,  six  years 
ago,  and  ye  stood  off  the  mob  of  boys  who  were 

280 


KATRINE    IN    NEW    YORK 

baiting  the  old  Jew — since  then  I've  taken  every 
thought  for  you  I  could.  And  I'm  asking  you  to 
believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  want  your  hap 
piness  more  than  my  own.  I've  felt  always  that 
you'll  never  succeed  as  a  public  singer,  and  here 
of  late,  since  I've  known  the  St.  Petersburg  con 
tracts  were  signed,  I've  suffered  in  my  thoughts 
of  you.  We'll  just  leave  another  suitor  out  of 
the  question.  It's  these  public  appearances  of 
yours  I  dread  at  the  present.  If  stage  life  could 
be  as  it  seems  from  the  right  side  of  the  foot 
lights;  if  you  knew  nothing  of  the  people  or  their 
lives,  except  as  Valentine  or  Siegfried,  it  would  be 
different.  But  the  meanness  of  it;  the  little  jeal 
ousies;  the  ignorant  egotisms;  I  am  afraid  you 
can  never  do  it,  you  will  despise  it  so." 

He  waited  a  little  as  though  recalling  stage 
life,  in  which  he  had  taken  some  active  part,  be 
fore  he  continued  with  a  noble  selfishness. 

"And  I  dread  this  St.  Petersburg  experience! 
You,  just  a  bit  of  a  girl  alone,  with  nobody  but 
an  old  Irishwoman  and  that  Josef,  who  has  a 
rainbow  in  his  soul  but  no  common-sense  in  his 
head.  So,  whether  you  care  or  not,  I  want  you  to 
know,  to  remember,  if  trouble  comes,  that  there's 
a  man  here  in  New  York  thinking  always  of  you, 
one  who  would  give  his  life  to  save  you  from  pain." 

281 


XXVI 

DERMOTT    McDERMOTT 

"You  who  were  ever  alert  to  befriend  a  man, 
You  who  were  ever'  the  first  to  defend  a  man, 
You  who  had  always  the  money  to  lend  a  man 
Down  on  his  luck  and  hard  up  for  a  V. 
Sure  you'll  be  playing  a  harp  in  beatitude 
(And  a  quare  sight  you  will  be  in  that  attitude) 
Some  day,  where  gratitude  seems  but  a  platitude, 
You'll  find  your  latitude." 

A  BOUT  Christmas  -  time  the  Metropolitan 
•*»•  managers  offered  Katrine  an  engagement  for 
next  season.  In  a  lengthy  interview  with  their 
extremely  courteous  representative  she  explained 
her  inability  to  accept  the  very  flattering  terms 
by  reason  of  the  already  signed  St.  Petersburg 
contracts.  Although  there  seemed  no  definite 
outcome  from  the  interview,  the  gentleman  with 
whom  it  was  held  left  her,  as  all  did,  charmed 
by  her  sincerity,  her  enthusiasm,  and  her  great 
generosity. 

282 


DERMOTT    McDERMOTT 

The  following  week  Melba  was  indisposed, 
and  the  much-impressed  gentleman  of  the  Met 
ropolitan  wrote  to  Katrine,  asking  if  she  would 
sing  for  them  in  the  great  prima-donna's  place. 

She  accepted  the  offer  with  small  hesitation, 
asking  no  one's  advice  about  an  unheralded 
debut.  She  was  too  great  an  artist  to  desire  any 
thing  but  stern  criticism,  and  if  she  could  sing 
greatly,  she  reasoned,  the  public  would  be  quick 
enough  to  discover  it.  The  opera  to  be  given 
was  "Faust."  Her  costumes  were  quite  ready  by 
reason  of  her  Paris  debut,  and  she  went  to  the 
morning  rehearsals  with  the  same  joy  in  her 
work  that  she  had  known  when  studying  with 
Josef. 

About  four  of  the  afternoon,  before  the  final 
rehearsal,  it  began  to  snow  persistently  in  small 
flakes  which  dropped  evenly  from  a  leaden  sky. 
Standing  by  the  window,  twisting  the  curtain- 
string  unconsciously,  with  her  soul  out  in  the 
storm,  she  became  conscious  of  excited  cries  of 
"Extra!"  in  the  street  below,  and  as  though  in 
accompaniment  to  them  there  came  an  incessant 
ringing  of  the  bell  at  the  street  door. 

Nora  being  absent  on  some  self-appointed 
business  of  her  own,  the  maid  who  had  brought 
in  the  tea,  and  one  of  the  very  damp  papers  which 

283 


KATRINE 

the  boys  were  still  crying  below,  left  the  room 
with  some  abruptness  to  see  what  was  demanded 
below  and  who  was  clamoring  for  admission. 

Katrine,  left  alone,  poured  the  tea  herself,  her 
eyes  scanning  the  news  indifferently  until  they 
rested  on  some  heavy  black  lines  heading  the  last 
column.  Again  and  again  she  looked,  hoping 
that  the  printing  would  stay  still,  would  stop 
seeming  to  dance  up  and  down  between  the  floor 
and  ceiling — stop  long  enough  for  her  to  get  its 
dreadful  import: 

REPORTED  ASSIGNMENT  OF  FRANCIS  RAYENEL! 


Combined  Attack  Made  on  M.  S.  and  R.  Railroad! 


Mr.  Ravenel  Dangerously  111  at  tie  Savoy ! 


Dangerously  ill!  Dangerously  ill!  Danger 
ously  ill!  The  words  began  going  over  and  over 
in  her  brain,  seeming  to  strike  from  within  on 
her  temples  in  a  kind  of  hammering  that  she 
felt  would  set  her  mad.  She  stood  helpless,  her 
career,  her  work,  her  ambition  gone  from  her  in 
a  divine  self-forgetting  and  desire  to  help,  as 
his  gayety,  his  charm,  "his  difference"  from  all 
others  came  back  to  her.  She  made  new  excuses 
for  his  conduct.  She  told  herself,  as  a  mother 

284 


DERMOTT    McDERMOTT 


might  speak  of  a  child,  that  he  had  been  so 
spoiled.  She  remembered  only  the  best  of  him 
—  his  kindness  to  her  father,  his  generosity  to 
herself. 

She  had  long  since  realized  the  weight  of 
Frank's  words  the  morning  of  their  parting. 

"And  remember,  that  if  I  did  not  do  the  best, 
I  did  not  do  the  worst;  that  I  am  going  away 
when  I  might  stay,"  and  she  knew,  looking  back 
on  her  youth  and  trustfulness,  how  much  truth 
there  might  have  been  in  those  words.  She 
clasped  her  hands  to  her  head  trying  to  think. 
The  throbbing  in  her  head  began  to  be  followed 
by  horrid  sensations  of  things  around  going  far 
away  to  an  immeasurable  distance,  and  return 
ing  again  rapidly  and  horribly  enlarged. 

"Dangerously  ill!"  she  repeated.  "Dying,  per 
haps,  alone  in  hotel  rooms  with  none  but  paid  at 
tendance." 

Her  throat  became  choked  at  thought  of  it. 
"Father  in  heaven,"  she  cried,  her  hands  clasped 
together,  "help  me  to  help  him!  Don't  let  him 
suffer!"  she  pleaded.  "I  promised  to  help  him 
always.  Help  me  to  keep  my  promise!" 

Outside,  the  controversy  between  the  maid  at 
the  door  and  some  other  was  growing  louder,  and 
15  285 


KATRINE 

a  demanding,  forceful,  insolent  voice  was  in 
sisting  upon  seeing  Katrine  "immejit,"  as  the 
frightened  French  girl  came  back  to  the  room  in 
a  panic  of  fear. 

"A  gentleman  to  see  you,  mademoiselle." 

"I  can  see  no  one,"  Katrine  answered,  briefly, 
her  face  averted. 

"He  says  his  business  is  most  important." 

"Who  is  it,  Marcelle  ?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  Nora's  son,  mademoiselle,  and  he  has 
been  drinking;  but  if  I  were  you,  I'd  see  him." 

The  significance  of  the  girl's  tone  changed 
Katrine's  former  decision. 

"Tell  him  to  come  in,"  she  said. 

Barney  came  as  far  as  the  doorway  and  stood 
leaning  against  the  frame  of  it,  his  eyes  hot  and 
angry,  waving  a  newspaper  wildly  over  his  head. 

"Of  all  the  damned  dirty  businesses,"  he  cried, 
"this  is  the  damnedest  and  dirtiest  I  ever  got  up 
against!  'Combined  attack,'"  he  quoted,  strik 
ing  the  printed  words  with  his  fist.  "Do  you 
know  the  name  of  that  combination  ?  Dermott 
McDermott,  that's  its  name.  There  may  be  a  few 
others  mixed  up  in  it — Marix,  for  instance — for 
looks  only.  But  it's  McDermott  at  the  bottom; 
this  same  McDermott  mother's  always  tellin' 
me  to  imitate.  Damned  rascal!  He's  hated  Mr. 

286 


DERMQTT    McDERMOTT 

Ravenel  and  downed  him  because  he  thinks  you 
love  him.     Hit  him  when  he's  down,  too!" 

He  was  too  excited  to  sit  down,  hut  walked 
back  and  forth,  talking  loudly  with  excited  gest 
ures. 

"Mr.  Ravenel  got  back  from  Europe  only 
three  days  ago,  Tuesday,  and  in  the  evening  he 
sent  for  me  to  come  to  the  Savoy.  Miss  Katrine, 
I've  never  seen  so  dreadful  a  change  in  any  one. 
He  was  like  an  old  man.  The  look  of  death  was 
on  him,  and  he  said  he'd  sent  for  me  to  cheer  him 
up  with  my  talk." 

The  boy  was  unable  to  continue  for  the  sobs 
which  shook  him,  and  he  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands  for  a  space  before  he  could  proceed. 

"He'd  found  bad  news  in  Europe,  he  told  me, 
and  wanted  me  to  cheer  him  up.  I  stayed  the 
night  with  him,  and  in  the  morning  when  I  call 
ed  him  he  did  not  answer,  but  just  lay  still  and 
white,  looking  at  me,  unable  to  speak.  We  got 
Dr.  Johnston  right  away,  and  telegraphed  Mr. 
Ravenel's  mother,  who  arrived  the  next  day. 
Yesterday  morning  that  hound  Marix,  whose 
affairs  are  all  mixed  up  with  McDermott's,  sent 
this  note  to  me." 

He  extended  a  bit  of  yellow  paper  toward  her, 
upon  which  was  written: 

287 


KATRINE 

"Sell  Ravenel  stocks  within  the  next  twenty-four 
hours,  and  hold  for  the  bottom  to  drop  out  of  them." 

"But  I'll  get  even  with  him,  this  Marix!" 
Barney  shrieked,  in  his  rage.  "The  only  reason 
he  gives  me  tips  is  because  I  know  something 
disgraceful  of  him!  I'll  publish  him  from  one 
end  of  the  country  to  the  other!  I'll  send  him 
to  the  penitentiary!  But  I  can't  reach  McDer- 
mott!  Oh,"  he  cried,  with  clinched  fists,  "if  I 
only  could!" 

"I  can,"  Katrine  said,  quietly;  asking,  after 
a  minute's  doubting,  "You're  sure  it  is  Dermott 
McDermott  who  is  at  the  foot  of  the  trouble  ?" 

"Who  else  has  the  money  or  the  reasons  to 
make  such  an  attack  ?"  he  demanded  of  her  as 
an  answer.  "And  Marix  as  good  as  told  me 
McDermott  had  some  big  deal  on  against  the 
Ravenel  interests  last  month." 

She  stood  looking  up  at  him,  the  folded  yellow 
paper  in  her  hand,  driven  by  race  instinct  to 
fight  in  the  open,  to  get  into  the  enemy's  country, 
especially  if  McDermott  were  the  enemy. 

With  an  angry  light  in  her  eyes  she  called 
for  a  storm-cloak  and  demanded  a  cab,  setting 
Nora  and  her  remonstrances  aside  with  abrupt 
decision.  Giving  the  cabman  the  address  of  Mc- 

288 


DERMOTT    McDERMOTT 

Dermott's  down-town  offices,  she  sat  in  the  dark 
of  the  carriage  with  the  paper  Barney  had  given 
her  clutched  in  her  hand,  with  neither  consider 
ation  of  the  coming  interview  nor  formulated 
plans.  In  a  vague  way  she  knew  that  people 
stared  after  her,  as  she  went  through  the  corri 
dor  of  the  great  building,  the  hood  of  her  storm- 
cloak  thrown  back.  Unminding,  she  rapped  at 
McDermott's  private  door.  She  had  no  mis 
giving  about  his  being  there.  She  knew  in  some 
way,  before  she  left  her  apartment,  that  he  would 
be  there  when  she  arrived. 

"Come  in!"  he  called,  curtly. 

She  entered  to  find  him  alone,  standing  by  the 
window  looking  absent-mindedly  over  the  snowy 
chimney-tops,  as  though  projecting  a  holiday. 

"By  all  the  saints  at  once!"  he  cried,  gayly,  at 
sight  of  her.  "  Here  have  I  been  ruminating  on 
the  sins  of  the  fathers;  on  the  triumphant  fifth 
act,  with  vice  punished  and  virtue  rewarded  at 
the  fall  of  the  curtain,  when  you  enter!"  And 
here  her  silence  and  pallor  and  accusing  eyes 
stopped  his  talking.  "What  is  it,  Katrine?"  he 
demanded. 

"Did  you  bring  this  trouble  to  Mr.  Ravenel  ?" 
she  asked,  her  eyes  filled  with  a  dangerous  light 
which  in  a  second  was  matched  by  the  blaze  in  his. 

289 


KATRINE 

"Do  you  mean  that  ye  think  it  was  I  who 
struck  a  man  in  the  back  in  the  way  this  thing 
was  done  ?"  he  cried,  bringing  his  closed  fist 
down  on  the  newspaper,  which  lay  on  the  desk 
before  him,  in  a  splendid  kind  of  anger.  "How 
little  you  know  me,  after  all!"  he  said,  reproach 
in  his  voice.  "How  little  ye  know  me!  I've 
had  neither  art  or  part  in  it,  nor  suspicion  of  it 
until  to-day.  You'll  be  wanting  proof  of  it!" 
he  went  on,  a  bit  of  scorn  in  his  voice.  "If  so, 
mayhap  the  common-sense  of  the  situation  will 
appeal  to  you,  though  I  don't  know."  He  was 
angry,  and  she  felt  the  brunt  of  it  in  these 
words.  "Look  you!"  he  continued.  "Why 
should  I  be  ruining  an  estate  that  I'm  trying  to 
get  possession  of?  It  would  be  a  fool's  part  to 
play." 

"Forgive  me,  McDermott!"  she  cried.  "Oh, 
forgive  me!  I  want  no  further  proof.  Your 
face  is  enough  for  me.  But  I'm  beside  myself 
with  grief. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  continued,  "  that  you  reasoned 
I  was  capable  of  this  because  of  that  affair  about 
the  land  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  ?" 

"I  did  think  of  it,"  Katrine  admitted.  "For 
give  me  for  it,  Dermott,  but  I  did  think  of  it!" 

"Do  you  know  for  whom  I  bought  that  land, 
290 


DERMOTT    McDERMOTT 

Katrine  Dulany  ?  For  your  father — no  less.  It 
was  got  with  the  hope  of  helping  him.  It  stands 
in  his  name  in  the  State  records  to-day." 

"Oh,  Dermott!"  she  pleaded,  the  Irish  form 
of  speech  coming  back  to  her.  "You'll  just  be 
forgiving  me,  won't  you  ?"  She  put  her  hand 
on  his  sleeve  and  looked  up  at  him  with  implor 
ing  eyes.  "You  must  know  how  great  and  good 
I  still  believed  you  to  be  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
came  to  you  to  ask  you  to  help  him.  I've  some 
money— the  Countess,  you  know,"  she  explained 

"and  I  thought  if  you'd  faith  in  my  voice — and 
ye've  said  often  that  ye  have  —  that  if"  —she 
broke  into  a  storm  of  weeping — "if  you'd  just 
lend  him  the  money  that's  needed  I  could  sing 
the  debt  clear  in  the  years  to  come." 

Dermott  looked  down  at  the  bowed  head  upon 
his  old  desk,  his  eyes  moist,  his  lips  twitching. 

"Perhaps,"  he  broke  in,  the  angry  light  still 
in  his  eyes,  "ye'll  tell  me  who  accuses  me  of  this 
business  ?" 

For  answer  she  extended  toward  him  the  yel 
low  paper  which  Barney  had  given  her,  signed 
with  John  Manx's  initials. 

"And  so  you  believed  Barney,  although  ye 
know  his  weakness  for  jumping  at  conclusions  ? 
Ye  must  have  believed  him,  for  my  name's 

291 


KATRINE 


not  mentioned  here,"  he  said,  looking  at  the 
paper. 

"He  told  me  Mr.  Marix  had  intimated  to  him 
that  you  were  behind  the  attack." 

"Ah!  and  so  it's  Marix  that's  been  misusing 
my  name,  is  it  ?"  he  cried,  his  eyes  narrowed. 
"I'll  settle  with  him!"  And  then,  "Ye  love 
Ravenel,  Katrine  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered:  "there's  just  nothing 
else  in  life  for  me." 

"And  after  all  that's  gone  between  him  and 
me,  you  are  asking  me  to  help  him?" 

"  Dermott,"  she  said,  gravely,  sobbing  between 
the  words,  "  I  came  to  you  because  I  have  always 
known  the  greatness,  the  selflessness  of  you,  and 
I  trust  you." 

They  stood  in  silence,  not  looking  at  each  other. 

"  I  have  no  one  else,"  she  went  on.  '  There  is 
no  one  else  in  the  world  I  trust  as  I  do  you." 

He  held  himself  more  erect  at  the  words,  a 
great  light  in  his  face. 

"You  are  the  only  one  who  has  always,  always 
been  kind  to  me,"  she  continued,  "and  I'd  give 
all  there  is  of  me  to  come  to  you,  heart  whole,  as 
your  wife.  But  I  can't  do  it,  Dermott,  I  can't 
do  it!  I've  tried;  no  one  knows  how  I  tried  to 
forget  this  love  in  my  heart.  I  studied  to  forget, 

292 


DERMQTT    McDERMOTT 

worked  to  forget,  willed  to  forget,  but "  —  and 
here  she  spoke  the  truth  of  life— -"when  great 
love  has  once  been  between  a  man  and  a  woman, 
the  man  may  forget,  but  the  woman  never.  I've 
wealth  and  beauty,  they  say,  and  gift,  and  they're 
all  just  nothing  to  me  except  to  help  him.  Before 
I'd  been  two  days  at  the  Van  Rensselaer's  it  was 
just  as  it  had  been  in  Carolina.  It  was  only  fear 
that  kept  me  from  saying  I'd  marry  him." 

"  He  wants  to  marry  you  now  ?  He  has  asked 
you  ?"  Dermott  spoke  softly  for  her  sake,  keep 
ing  from  his  voice  the  scorn  he  felt  for  Ravenel. 

"Yes,"  she  returned.  "And  I  know  all  you're 
thinking;  but  it  makes  no  difference!  When  I 
think  of  him,  ill,  perhaps  dying,  his  fortune  gone, 
and  nameless,  maybe,  as  well,  I'd  give  my  soul  to 
save  him!"  she  cried,  tear-eyed  and  pale,  but 
glorious  in  self-abnegation. 

She  had  risen  and  stood  before  him  with  eyes 
uplifted  and  unseeing.  For  a  moment  only  she 
stood  thus,  before,  the  strain  of  the  time  proving 
too  great  for  her  to  endure  longer,  she  turned 
suddenly,  and  but  for  his  supporting  arm  would 
have  fallen.  For  a  little  while  her  dear,  dark 
head  lay  against  his  breast,  a  moment  never  to 
be  forgotten  by  him,  though  with  stoical  delicacy 
he  refrained  from  thoughts  which  might  have 

293 


KATRINE 


offended  her  could  she  have  known  them.  He 
had  grown  very  white  before  she  recovered  her 
self,  but  the  great  light  still  shone  in  his  eyes  as 
he  placed  a  hand  tenderly  on  her  shoulder. 

"Go  home,  little  girl,"  he  said.  "Go  home 
and  be  at  peace.  I  give  my  word  to  help  him. 
I  give  my  word  that  all,  so  far  as  I  can  make  it, 
will  be  well  with  him." 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  "you  are  so  good,  so  good!" 

He  made  no  answer  whatever,  standing  gray- 
faced  by  the  window,  looking  into  the  storm  with 
out  as  she  drew  her  cloak  about  her. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said. 

"I'll  take  you  to  the  carriage,"  he  answered, 
quietly.  "The  storm  is  still  violent,  I  see." 

Coming  back  to  the  office,  he  locked  the  door, 

o 

drew  the  curtains,  and  sat  beside  the  dying  fire 
alone.  In  the  outer  room  he  could  hear  the  click 
of  poker  dice,  could  even  distinguish  the  voices 
of  the  players,  but  they  seemed  far  off.  Life  it 
self  seemed  slipping  from  him.  Suddenly  he  threw 
himself  face  downward  on  the  rug  in  front  of  the 
fire  and  lay  shivering,  catching  his  breath  every 
little  while  in  dry  sobs,  impossible  for  any  one 
to  endure  for  long.  Every  little  while  he  clutched 
the  edge  of  the  rug  in  his  sinewy  hand,  not  know 
ing  in  his  agony  what  he  did.  The  dreams  and 

294 


DERMOTT   McDERMOTT 

hopes  of  six  years  had  been  taken  from  him,  and 
a  great  imagined  future  built  on  those  dreams  as 
well.  The  glory  of  his  life  had  departed,  and  in 
his  passionate  misery  there  seemed  nothing  ahead 
for  him  but  gray  skies  and  barren  land  and  bitter 
waters. 

All  night  and  far  into  the  morning  he  lay. 
About  five,  the  storm  outside  having  died  away, 
the  gray  light  began  showing  faintly  at  the  win 
dow  edges,  and  with  the  coming  of  the  dawn  the 
soul  of  the  man  gripped  him  and  demanded  an 
accounting.  "Was  this  the  way  he  helped  ?"  he 
asked  himself,  accusingly. 

By  chairs  and  desk,  for  his  strength  was  spent, 
he  reached  a  small  cabinet,  and,  finding  a  certain 
powder,  took  one,  and,  after  a  little  while,  another. 
Then  he  felt  his  pulse,  timing  it  by  the  watch  as 
he  did  so.  Satisfied,  he  crossed  the  room  to  a 
safe,  and  with  uncertain  hands  placed  package 
after  package  of  papers  on  the  desk  in  careful 
order.  Last,  from  an  inner  compartment,  he  took 
one  labelled  "Ravenel,"  and  stood  looking  at 
it  with  speculative  eyes. 

The  case  was  so  complete.  Quantrelle  and 
his  brother,  a  cure  of  Dieppe,  of  known  integrity, 
had  sworn  themselves  as  witnesses,  through  an 
open  window,  of  Madame  de  Nemours'  mar- 

295 


KATRINE 

riage.  But  what  of  it  ?  Katrine  could  never 
marry  a  man  with  a  disputed  name!  Still  look 
ing  at  the  bundle,  he  struck  a  match.  It  flared 
up,  sputtered,  and  went  out,  as  though  giving 
him  time  for  second  thought.  Resolutely  he 
lighted  another,  set  the  flame  to  the  papers  for  a 
second  time,  and  in  an  instant  whatever  trouhle 
they  contained  for  Frank  Ravenel  was  nothing 
but  smoke  in  the  chimney. 

"God  forgive  me!"  he  cried,  as  he  sat  down 
to  write  the  following  letter: 

DEAR  RAVENEL, — You  will  remember,  I  said  in  my 
last  interview  that  the  matter  upon  which  we  spoke 
could  not  be  fully  proven  until  I  received  further  letters 
from  France.  They  have  come,  and  I  hasten  to  write 
you  that  the  marriage  we  spoke  of  was  not  a  legal  one, 
the  witness,  Quantrelle  Le  Rouge,  being  a  great  liar. 
It  is  thoroughly  proven.  Pray  give  yourself  no  more 
anxiety  on  the  subject,  and  forgive  me  for  doing  what 
my  duty  prompted  me  to  do.  The  thing  is  com 
pletely  by  with  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  and  I  have 
burned  all  of  the  papers  relative  to  the  matter.  With 
best  wishes  for  your  complete  restoration  to  health,  I 
remain,  Sincerely  yours, 

DERMOTT  MCDERMOTT. 

He  folded  the  letter  and  sealed  it,  a  curious 
smile  upon  his  lips  as  he  did  so.  Afterward  he 

296 


DERMOTT    McDERMOTT 

began  looking  over  securities  and  making  a  list 
of  them  in  steady,  fine  writing  for  the  work  in  the 
day  to  come. 

About  eight  he  went  to  his  hotel,  bathed, 
dressed  himself  for  the  day,  and  neither  of  the 
facts  that  his  heart  was  breaking,  nor  that  he 
was  about  to  shake  the  money  market  of  New 
York,  prevented  him  from  regarding  himself 
critically  in  the  mirror  to  see  if  he  showed  suf 
fering,  nor  from  changing  his  neck-scarf  to  one 
of  gallant  red. 

Underneath  the  bitterness  of  his  heart  lay  a 
desire  to  square  accounts  with  Marix.  But  it 
wras  part  of  his  nature  to  excuse  the  weak, 
and  on  the  way  down  to  Wall  Street  the  remem 
brance  of  the  broker's  timid-looking  wife  and 
the  three  little  ones  came  to  him.  It  was  easy, 
after  all,  to  forgive.  Marix  was  too  unintelligent 
to  understand  that  it  paid  to  be  honest.  "Per 
haps,"  he  reasoned,  "God  meant  that  even  the 
fools  and  traitors  should  be  helped,  too." 

Going  into  the  stock-room,  he  looked  over  the 
quotations  of  the  day  before  in  an  unimportant 
manner,  waiting  for  Marix  to  come  in. 

"Hello!  Hello!"  he  cried,  at  sight  of  him, 
with  a  genial  laugh,  putting  a  hand  on  each  of 
the  little  broker's  shoulders  and  looking  down 

297 


KATRINE 

at  him  with  warning  eyes.  "I'm  going  on  the 
floor  myself  to-day.  It's  been  a  long  time  since 
I've  been  there.  Ravenel  and  I  have  come  to  an 
understanding,"  his  long,  sinewy  hands  grip 
ped  Marix  for  a  minute  so  hard  they  made  him 
wince,  "and  I'm  going  on  to  protect  his  inter 
ests." 

The  blue  light  of  battle  was  in  his  eyes;  his 
hat  was  far  back  on  his  head  and  his  hands 
thrust  deep  in  his  pockets  as  he  waited  for  the 
gong  to  call  him  to  the  fight.  He  saw  that  many 
were  regarding  him  curiously,  and  his  cheeks 
flushed  with  the  Celtic  instinct  to  do  the  thing 
well — dramatically  well.  He  knew  that,  in  the 
long  night  vigil,  part  of  him  had  died  forever, 
but  with  chin  well  up,  like  a  knight  of  old,  he 
went,  at  the  sound  of  the  great  bell,  to  battle 
for  the  happiness  of  the  woman  he  loved. 


XXVII 

SELF-SURRENDER 

WHEN  Katrine  returned  to  her  apartment 
after  her  visit  to  Dermott,  she  found  Nora, 
with  an  excited  countenance,  waiting  for  her  at 
the  door.  Finger  on  lip,  she  indicated  a  wish 
for  Katrine  to  follow  to  her  bedroom. 

"Miss  Katrine,"  she  said,  closing  the  door  by 
backing  against  it,  "there's  one  waiting  for  you. 
And  you  must  think  quick  whether  ye  want  to 
see  her — with  all  that  it  may  mean  to  you — with 
the  rehearsal  to-night.  Though,  poor  lady,  God 
knows  her  troubles!  It's  Mrs.  Ravenel,"  she 
concluded. 

"Alone?"  Katrine  asked. 

"Yes,  and  with  the  tears  streaming  from  her 
eyes  and  the  look  of  death  on  her  face.  Mr. 
Frank's  dyin',  they  say.  But  I  want  you  to 
think — to  think  for  yourself,  Miss  Katrine.  Re 
member  the  night  in  Paris,  when  the  world  hung 
on  your  voice!  Think  of  the  afternoon  when  the 

299 


KATRINE 

greatest  queen  on  earth  kissed  ye,  after  ye'd  sung 
to  her,  with  dukes  and  other  creatures  standin' 
round  admirin'!  Think  that,  if  your  voice  fails 
ye  to-night  because  of  excitement  and  worry,  it 
may  be  a  check  on  your  whole  career!  Think 
of  the  beautiful  clothes  laid  out  for  ye  to  wear, 
and  judge  if  it's  worth  while  taking  chances  for 
a  man  who  flung  ye  away  like  a  worn-out  glove!" 

"Oh,  Nora!"  cried  Katrine,  reproachfully, 
"how  can  any  one  think  of  a  voice  in  a  time  like 
this  ?" 

As  Katrine  entered,  Mrs.  Ravenel  turned  from 
the  fire  by  which  she  was  standing  and  came 
toward  her  with  outstretched  hands. 

Her  eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  and  there  was 
a  hurried,  despairing  note  in  her  voice  as  she 
spoke.  "Katrine  Dulany,"  she  said,  "I've  come 
to  you  for  help."  Years  of  thought  could  not 
have  given  her  better  words,  and  the  strong, 
young  hands  enfolded  the  cold  ones  of  the  suf 
fering  mother. 

"If  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  I  will 
do  it,  oh,  so  gladly!"  Katrine  answered. 

"Frank  is  very" — Mrs.  Ravenel  hesitated,  as 
though  lacking  courage  to  speak  her  fears — "per 
haps  dangerously  ill.  For  nearly  two  months 
the  trouble  has  been  coming  on — ever  since  he 

300 


SELF-SURRENDER 


was  at  the  Van  Rensselaers'.  When  he  came 
back  to  me  in  North  Carolina  he  had  changed. 
He  seemed  struggling  to  throw  off  some  heavy 
burden.  His  old  gayety  was  gone,  and  he  was 
always  going  to  Marlton  to  look  for  records  or 
asking  me  for  more  of  his  father's  papers.  At 
times  he  seemed  half  distracted,  and  would  sit 
looking  at  me  with  brooding  eyes  with  pity  in 
them.  But  when  he  came  back  from  Europe, 
just  two  weeks  ago  to-day"  -  the  poor  lady's 
voice  was  choked  with  sobs,  and  Katrine  put  a 
supporting  arm  around  her  with  beautiful  tender 
ness  as  she  waited  for  her  to  continue — "he  looked 
so  ill  I  cried  out  at  first  sight  of  him.  And  he 
does  not  care  to  live!  I  can't  make  it  out.  It's 
not  the  money  trouble.  Money  could  never 
worry  Frank.  He  cares  too  little  for  it!  Last 
week,"  she  went  on,  her  voice  losing  itself  in 
sobs,  "Anne  Lennox  wrote  me  of  your  being  at 
the  Van  Rensselaers',  and  of  its  being  said  there 
that  Frank  had  asked  you  to  marry  him  and  that 
you  had  refused.  Then  I  remembered  that  he 
told  me,  three  years  ago,  of  loving  some  one  very 
greatly.  Last  night  he  became  delirious,  and  in 
the  fever  he  called  your  name  over  and  over 
again,  crying  always,  'Oh,  Katrine,  forgive!' 
And  that's  what  I've  come  to  ask  you  to  do— 

301 


KATRINE 


to  forgive — to  forgive  him  and  me  for  all  the 
wrong  I  taught  him,  for  the  weak  and  foolish 
way  I  brought  him  up — to  forgive  and  come  to 
him." 

"There  is  nothing  not  forgiven,"  Katrine  said. 
"I  would  give  my  life  to  save  him,"  and  the  two 
clung  to  each  other,  weeping,  before  setting  out, 
wifehood  and  motherhood,  to  battle  with  death. 

Well  hidden  by  the  curtains,  Nora  watched 
Katrine  enter  the  carriage  after  Mrs.  Ravenel, 
realizing,  with  more  anger  than  she  had  ever  felt, 
all  that  the  going  meant.  She  had  hoped  that 
after  a  few  years  of  the  singing  Katrine's  heart 
would  turn  to  Dermott,  and  as  she  saw  her 
hopes  fade  away  she  shook  her  head  knowingly, 
with  even  a  touch  of  vindictive  satisfaction. 

"There  are  two  kinds  of  men,"  she  reflected, 
her  eyes  on  the  departing  carriage:  "the  man 
who  wants  a  woman  to  put  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  and  the  man  who  wants  to  put  his  head 
on  a  woman's  shoulder.  And  when  a  girl's  fool 
enough  to  like  the  last  kind  best,  she  generally 
pays." 


XXVIII 

UNDER    THE    SOUTHERN    PINES    ONCE    MORE 

WHEN  Mrs.  Ravenel  and  Katrine  entered 
Frank's  apartments  they  found  Dr.  John 
ston  by  the  window  of  the  sitting-room,  and,  with 
no  spoken  word,  Katrine  knew  he  had  been 
waiting  for  her  to  come.  His  face  bespoke  more 
than  professional  anxiety;  it  bore  a  look  of  sor 
row  and  the  dread  of  losing  a  dear  friend. 

According  Katrine  but  a  scant  nod  of  recogni 
tion,  he  crossed  to  the  door  of  the  sleeping-room, 
and,  after  looking  in,  made  a  gesture,  stealthy 
and  cautious,  for  Katrine  to  enter. 

The  room  was  dark  save  for  a  night  light. 
Frank's  face  was  turned  toward  her,  his  eyes 
closed.  One  hand,  helpless,  unutterably  ap 
pealing,  lay  outside  the  white  cover,  and  at 
sight  of  him  thus  it  seemed  her  heart  would 
break. 

With  a  swift  movement  she  knelt  beside  the 
bed,  waiting  to  take  the  poor,  tired  head  upon  her 

3°3 


KATRINE 

breast.     As    her   eyes   grew   accustomed    to   the 
light,  she  saw  his  lips  tremble. 

"Dear,"  she  said. 

There  was  silence,  and  then:  "It  is  worth  all- 
it  is  worth  all — for  this,"  he  whispered.  'Touch 
me,  Katrine!" 

And  she  laid  her  cheek  on  his. 

"Katrine?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"You  will  stay?  I  will  try  to  sleep  now  if 
you  will  touch  me.  Katrine,  you  will  not  slip 
away  ?" 

"I  shall  stay  until  you  are  quite  well,  be 
loved." 

At  three  in  the  morning  he  awoke  with  a 
shiver.  "Where  are  you?"  he  called.  "Where 
are  you,  Katrine  ?" 

"Here,"  she  answered,  laying  a  hand  on  his 
cheek. 

"Ah,  thank  God!" 

It  was  over  a  month  before  Mrs.  Ravenel  and 
Katrine  were  able  to  take  Frank  south,  where  he 
longed  to  be.  The  St.  Petersburg  engagement 
was  cancelled,  and  the  Metropolitan  manager, 
angry  at  Katrine's  forgetfulness  to  notify  him 
that  she  could  not  sing  the  night  Mrs.  Ravenel 

3°4 


UNDER    THE    PINES   ONCE   MORE 

had  come  for  her,  made  many  caustic  news 
paper  criticisms.  But  both  events  seemed  en 
tirely  unimportant  to  her,  for  Frank's  paralysis, 
which  the  doctors  had  believed  but  a  temporary 
affair,  did  not  leave  him  as  soon  as  had  been  hoped. 

There  was  a  splendid  Celtic  recklessness  in 
the  way  she  surrendered  everything  for  him,  a 
generosity  which  Mrs.  Ravenel  saw  with  com 
mending  eyes,  believing  it,  by  some  strange 
mother- reasoning,  to  be  but  just.  But  Frank 
was  far  from  taking  the  same  attitude  in  the 
matter.  Almost  the  first  day  he  was  able  to  be 
wheeled  on  the  great  piazza  in  the  sunshine  he 
spoke  to  Katrine  of  the  time  she  must  soon  leave, 
to  keep  the  St.  Petersburg  engagements. 

"I  have  no  St.  Petersburg  engagements,"  she 
explained,  briefly.  "I  cancelled  them." 

He  sat  with  closed  eyes,  but  she  saw  the  tears 
between  the  lids  as  he  spoke.  "I  have  not  had 
the  courage  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  at  length, 
slowly,  "before,  but  all  that  McDermott  said  is 
true,  Katrine." 

"Indeed!"  Words  could  not  explain  the  tone. 
She  might  have  received  news  of  the  Andaman 
Islanders  as  carelessly. 

"You  know  what  it  means  to  me!"  he  said, 
after  a  silence. 

305 


KATRINE 

"I  know  what  you  think  it  means  to  you,"  she 
answered. 

"  It  means  that  I  have  and  am  nothing.  When 
I  think  of  mother —  He  looked  at  Katrine, 
with  her  radiant  beauty,  as  she  reached  upward 
for  an  early  rose.  "And  your  friend  Mc- 
Dermott,"  he  went  on,  "has  done  a  strange 
thing.  This  morning  I  opened  my  mail  for  the 
first  time  since  my  illness.  In  it  I  found  a  letter 
from  him,  saying  that  it  could  be  proven  that  my 
father  had  never  made  an  early  marriage,  and 
that  Quantrelle  was  a  great  liar.  I  don't  un 
derstand  it.  I  saw  Quantrelle  myself,  as  well 
as  his  brother,  when  I  was  in  France.  There  is 
not  a  doubt  the  marriage  was  an  entirely  legal 
one,  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  Ah,"  he  cried, 
''Katrine,  it  seems  to  kill  me  when  I  think  of  it!" 

"Francis  Ravenel,"  she  cried,  the  old  smile  on 
her  face  as  she  came  toward  him  and  placed  her 
hand  caressingly  on  his  cheek,  "you  told  me 
once,  not  long  ago,  to  ask  you  to  marry  me. 
I  do." 

"Do  what?" 

"Ask  you  to  marry  me." 

"And  I  refuse,"  he  said,  firmly.  "I  will  not 
be  married  through  pity." 

"Oh,  very  well."  She  seated  herself  on  some 
306 


UNDER    THE    PINES    ONCE    MORE 

cushions   on    the   top   step,   humming   softly,   as 
though  his  words  were  of  no  moment  whatever. 

"You  don't  think  I  mean  it,  do  you?"  he 
demanded,  at  length. 

She  made  no  answer  whatever. 

"  Katrine,"  he  said,  at  length. 

"Yes." 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"I've  gone  away,"  she  answered.  "I  was 
not  being  treated  very  well,  and  so  I  went 
away.  I'm  over  in  my  Dreaming  Land,  My 
Own  Country." 

"Ah,  come  back  to  me!"  he  cried. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  obligingly,  though  she 
made  no  movement  toward  him.  "I've  been 
rebuilding  the  old  lodge,  in  my  thoughts,  for 
Josef.  It  will  be  such  a  wonderful  place  for  him 
to  rest  in!  He  will  want  the  first  floor  made  into 
one  room.  And  Nora  and  I  will  come  there  in 
the  summer-time,  when  we're  not  singing. 
Perhaps  you  will  come  to  visit  us  sometime,  Mr. 
Ravenel!"  she  said,  politely. 

"Katrine,  Katrine!"  he  pleaded.  "It  would 
be  so  unfair  to  you." 

"Nonsense,"  she  returned,  shortly.  There  was 
surely  never  anything  kinder  or  better  in  the 
world  than  this  belittling  of  the  whole  matter. 

3°7 


KATRINE 


"And  I  may  never  be  strong  again— 

"Then  I  can  have  my  own  way  more,"  she 
laughed. 

"And  your  voice — " 

"Beloved,"  she  said,  gravely,  "I  can  never 
give  up  my  singing.  Don't  think  me  vain  when 
I  say  I  sing  too  well  to  make  it  right  for  me  to  give 
it  up.  I  don't  believe  that  anybody  who  does  a 
thing  well,  who  has  the  real  gift,  can  give  it  up. 
But  that  I  shall  never  have  to  sing  for  money  is  a 
great  happiness  for  me.  I  can  sing  for  the 
poorer  folk,  for  the  ones  who  really  feel.  Ah," 
she  cried,  "I've  plans  of  my  own,  Josef  and  I! 
And  the  study  and  the  pain  were  to  teach  me 
how  unimportant  all  things  are  in  this  world 
save  only  love." 

"Katrine!  Katrine!"  he  cried,  "you  must  help 
me  to  be  square  to  you!"  He  raised  his  hand, 
feeble  from  illness,  in  the  manner  of  one  who 
takes  an  oath.  "I  solemnly  swear  that  I  will 
never  do  you  the  injustice — 

"Don't!"  she  cried,  springing  quickly  to  her 
feet  and  catching  the  upraised  hand  quickly  to 
her  breast.  "Don't!"  Adding  quickly,  with  a 
laugh,  "It's  dreadful  to  commit  perjury!" 

Their  hands  were  still  clasped  as  Mrs.  Ravenel 
came  out  to  join  them.  In  the  lavender  gown, 

308 


UNDER   THE    PINES    ONCE    MORE 

with  her  fair  face  smiling,  and  carrying  a  work- 
bag  of  the  interminable  knitting  in  one  hand, 
she  did  not  look  in  the  least  the  emissary  of  fate 
she  really  was. 

"  Mr.  de  Peyster  has  sent  some  letters,  Frank. 
He  writes  me  that  none  of  them  are  of  importance, 
but  that  you  may  care  to  look  them  over.  And 
they  made  me  think  of  a  great  envelope  of  papers 
which  I  had  meant  to  send  to  you  before  you  were 
taken  ill.  I  found  it  just  after  you  had  been  look 
ing  up  all  those  family  affairs,  before  you  went 
abroad!  I  put  them  with  my  knitting,  and  nat 
urally  forgot.  Your  father  gave  it  to  me,  oh, 
so  many  years  ago!  and  I  put  it  in  the  cedar 
chest."  She  gave  the  papers  to  Frank,  talking 
in  a  gay,  unimportant  manner  as  she  did  so. 
"Isn't  that  curious  on  the  outside?"  she  de 
manded.  !'To  be  opened  in  case  my  will  is  ever 
disputed'  Now,  who  did  your  father  think 
would  ever  dispute  his  will  ?  I  had  been  a 
faithful  and,"  she  laughed,  "more  or  less  obe 
dient  wife  for  many  years.  And  you  were  too 
small  to  dispute  anything  except  matters  with 
your  tutor.  Don't  look  them  over  now,  dear 
est,  they  may  worry  you!" 

Frank  took  the  envelope  with  an  inexplicable 
feeling  of  hope.  That  his  mother  had  forgotten 

3°9 


KATRINE 

important  papers  did  not  surprise  him  in  the 
least.  She  had  once  taken  a  mortgage  held  by 
his  father  and  pasted  it  over  a  place  in  a  chimney 
where  it  smoked.  She  said  herself  that  her 
temperament  was  not  one  for  affairs. 

A  quick  exchange  of  glances  passed  between 
Frank  and  Katrine  as  he  excused  himself  to  go 
to  his  room  for  rest,  and  then,  alone  at  twilight, 
he  broke  the  seal  upon  the  confession  of  that 
Francis  who  had  preceded  him.  To  his  utter 
confounding,  he  discovered  in  the  envelope  a 
certificate  of  legal  marriage  between  Francis 
Ravenel  and  Patricia  McDermott,  duly  wit 
nessed  and  sealed.  Wrapped  with  several  letters 
which  had  been  exchanged  between  them  was 
a  detailed  account  of  the  unfortunate  affair  in 
his  father's  crooked  writing,  and  inside  of  all 
a  bill  of  divorce,  which  had  been  obtained  in 
Illinois  previous  to  the  elder  Ravenel's  marriage 
with  the  beautiful  Julie  D'Hauteville,  of  New 
Orleans. 

As  Frank  read  the  history  of  the  boyish  folly 
he  felt  that  little  excusing  was  needed  for  his 
dead  father,  for  the  early  marriage  seemed  but 
an  escapade  of  a  spoiled  and  self-indulgent  boy 
with  a  headstrong  and  sentimental  girl,  neither 
of  whom  had  taken  a  thought  for  the  future. 

310 


UNDER    THE    PINES    ONCE    MORE 

"My  wife  renounced  her  faith  to  marry  me  [his  father 
wrote].  The  first  year  of  our  marriage,  which  was  a 
legal  one  only,  was  one  of  great  unhappiness,  for  at  heart 
Patricia  remained  a  Catholic  still.  She  was  depressed, 
suspicious,  afraid  of  the  future.  Recriminations  and 
quarrels  were  constant  between  us.  Finally,  I  went  to 
America  with  no  farewell  to  my  wife,  to  acquaint  my 
father  with  my  foolish  act,  and  to  ask  him  to  make  some 
suitable  provision  for  us.  Immediately  following  my 
departure,  I  discovered,  my  wife  re-entered  the  Catholic 
Church.  Soon  afterward  I  heard  that  her  father  had 
extended  his  forgiveness,  and  that  she  had  been  wel 
comed  back  by  her  kinfolk  in  Ireland.  Hearing  noth 
ing  from  her  whatever,  with  the  procrastination  which 
was  ever  one  of  my  great  faults,  I  put  off  doing  anything 
about  the  annulment  of  the  marriage  until  the  father  of 
Quantrelle  le  Rouge  wrote  me  that  he  had  heard  of  her 
death  as  well  as  that  of  the  child.  But  before  my 
marriage  to  Mademoiselle  D'Hauteville,  I  took  the  pre 
caution  to  obtain  a  divorce  quietly  in  Illinois.  Even 
if  Patricia  were  living  and  should  marry  again,  I  knew 
she  needed  no  protection  to  make  the  marriage  a  valid 
one,  as  her  Church  had  never  recognized  that  she  was 
married  to  me,  the  ceremony  having  been  performed 
by  a  Protestant." 

Frank  laid  aside  the  papers,  and,  with  his 
head  thrown  back  and  his  eyes  closed,  sat  in  the 
gathering  darkness  thinking,  with  neither  con- 

311 


KATRINE 

tinuity  nor  result,  of  that  strange  life -current 
which,  the  family  history  claimed,  connected  him 
backward  to  the  song-making  minstrels  of  the 
time  of  Charlemagne;  to  the  gallant  lovers  in 
the  time  of  the  Stuarts;  to  the  self-indulgent  and 
magnetic  Ravenels  of  North  Carolina. 

What  had  they  done  ?  Dermott's  question 
came  back  to  him  again  and  again,  and  through 
the  depression  into  which  this  thinking  was  lead 
ing  him  he  heard  Katrine  singing  softly  on  the 
piazza  underneath  his  window. 

Like  a  child  he  rose  and  went  to  her.  She 
was  standing  by  one  of  the  great  white  columns 
looking  into  the  shadowy  pine-trees  as  he  came. 
He  did  not  touch  her.  He  had  such  fear  of 
breaking  utterly  before  her  that  he  said,  with 
forced  quietude  of  voice: 

"I've  changed  my  mind  about  marrying  you, 
Katrine."  In  spite  of  his  effort  to  be  calm,  his 
voice  broke  into  something  like  a  sob  as  he  spoke 
her  name. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  realizing  what  the  import  of 
the  papers  must  have  been. 

After  he  had  told  Katrine  the  important  fact 
in  his  father's  statement,  there  came  to  him  with 
a  sudden  suspicion  of  the  truth  the  remembrance 
of  Dermott's  letter,  in  which  the  Irishman  had 

312 


UNDER   THE    PINES    ONCE    MORE 

stated  that  whatever  documents  he  had  held  con 
cerning  the  early  marriage  of  the  elder  Ravenel 
had  been  burned. 

Taking  the  letter  from  his  pocket,  he  gave  it 
to  Katrine,  who  read  it  in  the  fading  light  and 
returned  it  wordlessly.  She  had  turned  her  face 
away  that  Frank  might  not  see  the  glow  of  ad 
miration  she  felt  for  that  Irish  Dermott  whom 
Frank  could  never  understand. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  letter,  Katrine?" 
Frank  asked.  "I  fail  utterly  to  understand  it. 
Dermott  knew,  when  he  wrote  it,  that  my  father 
had  made  that  early  marriage.  It  had  been 
proven  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  even  to  me. 
I  feel  sure  that  he  knew  nothing  of  a  divorce  or 
he  would  have  mentioned  it." 

"I  think,"  Katrine  said,  softly,  "that  Dermott 
told  a  story.  You  remember  " —her  voice  broke 
a  little — "you  discovered  long  ago  he  didn't  al 
ways  tell  the  truth." 

"And  you  think,  then,"  Frank  insisted,  "that 
when  McDermott  wrote  this  letter,"  he  made  a 
motion  with  it  as  he  spoke,  "he  still  believed 
that  my  father  and  mother  were  never  legally 
married  ?" 

"He  believed  just  that,"  Katrine  answered. 
"He  told  me  so  the  day  he  wrote  the  letter." 

3'3 


KATRINE 

"  But  why  did  he  write  me  what  he  believed 
to  be  an  untruth  ?  Why  did  he  burn  papers 
which  he  must  have  believed  to  be  valuable 
evidence  ?" 

"  It's  a  way  of  his,"  Katrine  answered,  vaguely. 

"Katrine,"  Frank  cried,  "there  is  more  to 
this!  Why  did  McDermott  do  this  thing  for 
me  ?" 

"He  told  me  he  would  help  you." 

"When?" 

'The  day  I  went  down  to  Wall  Street  to  ask 
him  to  stop  the  attack  on  your  firm,  when  you 
were  so  ill.  It  was  the  day  I  told  him  that  I 
loved  you." 

"And  loving  you  himself,  as  he  has  always 
done,  he  did  this  for  me  ?" 

She  made  a  sign  of  acquiescence. 

"Ah!"  he  cried,  the  glow  of  enthusiasm  in  his 
eyes.  "I  have  never  understood  the  man,  but, 
before  God,  I  honor  and  reverence  him  for  what 
he  did.  There  is  much  of  the  hero  in  this  strange 
Dermott  McDermott." 

"I  have  known  that  always, "Katrine answered. 

"And  still  you  prefer  to  marry  me  ?" 

She  was  standing  at  a  little  distance  from  him, 
and  as  their  eyes  met  she  nodded  her  curly  head 
quickly,  as  a  child  might  have  done. 

3H 


UNDER    THE    PINES    ONCE    MORE 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  opening  his  arms  to  her, 
"come  to  me,  come  to  me,  you  divine  little  soul! 
I'm  not  worthy,  but  God  knows  how  I  will  try 
to  be!" 

And  a  little  later:  "It  is  cold  for  you  here," 
he  said.  "  Shall  we  go  in,  Mrs.  Francis  Ravenel  ?" 


THE     END 


A     000127062 


